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HXHelleslq> /IDa9a3tne 


The Famine in India and Government 

Belief Works 

The Story of Napoleon Macnamarra 

Miss Mary Wilkins versus Nature 

The Standing Joke at Cartrets 

The Laboratory Cat 

"In the Heart of the Rockies" 

A Memory . 

About the Courts 

Editorials . 

Free Press . 

Exchanges . 

Book Beviews 

Books Beceived 

College Notes 

Alumnae Notes 

Notice . 

Marriages . 

Births . 

Deaths . 

Julia Bissell, M.D. 

Sara Sumner Emery 
Bernice O. Kelly, '99 
Mary Hefferan, '96 
Agatha Jean Sonna, ' 
Mary Geraldine Gordon, 1900 
Amelia M. Ely, '98 


dol id, — flfoa& 1897 — no. 8 

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The Wellesley Magazine. 

Vol. V. WELLESLEY, MAY 15, 1897. No. 8. 




EDITH MAY, *97. 




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In connection with the famine that is now prevailing over so large a 
part of India, there is perhaps no one subject that will be so often referred 
to as that of Government Relief Works. The two are inseparably con- 
nected. Where one occurs, the other follows as a matter of course. When 
famine prevails or threatens, the thought uppermost in the minds of those 
who know the country and the conditions obtaining here invariably is, " What 
Relief Works are projected or already in operation to meet the distress? 
What will Government do to aid the suffering people?" To the lasting- 
credit of the English Government be it said, that promptness characterizes its 
every action at such times, and that one of the first duties of its officials is 
to keep Government informed of the needs of districts under their super- 
vision. The Famine Code, with its detailed instructions to officials as to 
modes of procedure during famine times, is an integral part of the admin- 
istration of Her Majesty's Indian Empire. 


To many, however, of those who read the words " Government Eelief 
Works," they will convey but a vague notion of the system they represent. 
Of all countries which are liable to visitations of famine, the Indian Empire 
affords the best example of a system by means of which employment is fur- 
nished by the Government to hundreds of thousands of people, suffering 
want and facing starvation. That is the central principle of Government 
Eelief Works here, namely, to provide employment, usually in the form of 
moderately severe manual labor, under the supervision of appointed over- 
seers, and at uniform rates of pay, to such of the people as may wish to 
avail themselves of it. The works are frequently in the form of public 
works, — buildings, irrigation works, reservoirs, and aqueducts, occasionally 
the construction of railroads, and similar undertakings to serve the public 
weal. This year upwards of three million people are engaged on such works, 
and are thereby securing the food necessary to maintain themselves and their 
families. The wages paid are intended to be sufficient to supply the laborers 
with the necessary food. More than this Government does not aim to do, 
and indeed could not undertake, when conducting works on so vast a scale. 
The aim accomplished is to afford employment, at subsistence wages, to as 
many as may ask for it. 

For the purpose of engaging in such works, the people are brought to- 
gether in "camps." At one camp twenty-five miles from Ahmednagar, a 
while ago, ten thousand people, many from villages and towns at some dis- 
tance, were encamped together. Some weeks ago we visited a smaller 
settlement seven miles away, and, in order to make the scene real, I propose 
to tell briefly what we saw there. 

We drove seven miles to a barren, stony hillside. The fields around 
us should have been showing their heavy ears of grain, — promise of a coming 
harvest. Instead, they were brown and dry, except at rare intervals, where 
the happy owner of a well had his own carefully-watered little crop, which 
by dint of patient irrigation he had brought to maturity. The grass, guilt- 
less of green blades, had been nibbled to its very roots by wandering herds 
of hungry cattle, and rivers and streams showed only sandy beds or stagnant 
pools scarce fit for animals. 

The camp was on the brow of a low, rolling hill. Here, planted in rows, 
close together, were small bamboo huts, for the laborers to occupy while at 


the works. The huts were made of bamboo matting stretched over a central 
ridge pole, supported at either end by posts. The space covered by each 
hut was not more than five feet by six, and, as a rule, a family was assigned 
to a hut. Most of the men slept on the ground outside the hut. The floor 
of these huts was of material known as mother earth, from which larger 
stones had been removed. As originally built, neither end of the hut was 
closed in, but some of the men had put branches of trees or a rude blanket 
across one end, while around the sides and in corners were piled the few 
household possessions, the obvious attempt being to preserve as large a space 
as possible in the center for the family sleeping compartment. 

There were about three thousand people at this camp, — men, women, 
and children. Of these the majority stayed at the place day and night, the 
rest coming each morning from near villages, and returning at sunset. Each 
laborer working full time received full adult wages. Every child that could 
do some work received a small allowance, and a smaller one still is made 
for infants and younger children, as also for each aged, infirm adult, and for 
mothers nursing their babes. Most of these three thousand had left their 
homes and their little all, in search of work. 

The work done at this encampment was that of breaking or crushing stone 
into metal for laying roads. At one side of the camp was a huge pile of 
crushed stone, the result of many days' weary toil. They gather each the 
metal he has made, into iron baskets provided them, and carry the basket- 
ful to the general pile. "This stone is hard to crush," they told us, and 
we, seeing their sore, blistered hands, believed them. To win the promised 
pay, each must finish his tale of baskets for the day. 

These toilers are paid regularly at the end of a stated number of days. 
Perhaps it would be more strictly correct to say that the paymasters have 
orders to pay them at stated times ; for if we may credit the workers' story, 
they must frequently wait several days for their pay. " And then we are in 
soi'e straits for bread to eat." A grain dealer has set up a shop near by the 
camp so that the people have not far to go for supplies. The shrewd dealer, 
on the scent for his penny, started by charging more than market prices for 
inferior grain. The people discovered his game, but were practically without 
redress until one fortunate day brought our Governor, His Excellency Lord 
Sandhurst, on his tour of inspection of Relief Works in his jurisdiction, to 


this camp. He asked to be shown a sample of the grain supplied, declared 
it unfit for use, and the prices too high, and ordered the dealer to improve 
his trade in both respects on penalty of forfeiting his privilege of selling 
grain at the camp. " Since then," the patient workers said, "we have good 
grain, and we pay fair market prices," and the ring of gratitude in their 
voices was unmistakable. 

At larger works, Government provides medicines with trained native 
medical men to administer them to any in need of treatment. We, on this 
visit, did not find such arrangements at this place. Indeed, no sooner had 
I stepped to the ground from our conveyance, than I found myself in the 
midst of a group of old patients and their relations, and nearly every one 
began with his particular tale of woe, as much as to say, "Seeing you 
makes me think that I have a lame foot," or, "You remind me that my 
boy has a cough." 

This, in brief, is one of the many Government Relief Works now in pro- 
gress in this country. Have we it fully in mind just what that word 
"Relief" implies? Here are nearly three thousand human beings, living 
miles from home, in a settlement of small bamboo huts, on an open hillside. 
At night, in these months of our winter just passed, the thermometer has 
frequently been below 50°, and the winds have blown keen and cutting to 
these ill-clad people. Such winds would without difficulty find their way 
into, and around, and out of the huts, on whose earth floors families lay hud- 
dled together for warmth. Not more than one thickness of blanket would 
they have to lie on, and often not as much to cover them. The hand-mills, 
in which all their grain is ground, were planted in the earth at the doors of 
the huts, the space immediately surrounding them being swept a bit cleaner .. 
than that at a distance. The flour falling from between the millstones col- 
lected in little heaps on the ground, and was then gathered up to be made 
into bread. At close of a day's work, the women must come home ( ?) to 
grind grain for their evening meal. 

In sickness, cold, and hunger, they keep at work, that their wages may 
not be lacking on pay day. One woman I saw holding close to her breast a wee 
babe whose tiny frame was every few minutes shaken by a violent fit of cough- 
ing. The child had not a thread of clothing on, and its mother was stret ch- 
ina: her own garment over it to shelter it from the cool evening air. A 


missionary lady living twenty-live miles from us said that at the Works near 
her home she knew of many a baby that first looked out on this world in 
the open air, the stars watching its earliest struggles with the strange envi- 
ronment into which it was born. So at this camp, as the number seeking 
work increased, it was found impossible to erect huts fast enough to accom- 
modate all, and many a family was houseless for days and weeks of cold 
weather. Fully half the people probably had never done work as hard as 
this to which they had come for the relief it afforded them — yes, relief from 
the fear and danger of starvation. When Lord Sandhurst was here, one of 
the points he made and emphasized repeatedly was, " Let not a life that can 
possibly be saved be lost for lack of food." That is the attitude of Govern- 
ment, the end they are straining every resource to accomplish in India. 
Far be it from anyone to raise a word of criticism or complaint because of 
what is not done. That is farthest from my intention. It is rather that 
India's friends in America may know to what their stricken fellow-beings 
are driven in this country to obtain relief from their condition ; that they may 
realize that their condition at these Relief Works is after all better than it 
would be if they had stayed at home. 

The keen cold has gone, and soon a merciless sun will beat on their 
heads, and scorching winds burn their eyes, and glowing sandstone reflect a 
glaring heat, and still they will toil over their tale of baskets, for the bread 
and gruel that can thus only find its way to their own and their children's 

Julia Bissell, M.D. 

Ahmednagar, Ixdia, March 12, 1S97. 


"It iss von greetes' peety," said Peter Krussbald solemnly over his tall 
beer glass, "dat, no matter how fery many childrens dose Macnamarra do 
have, dey do lose all but de one at de time. It iss peetys." 

The bartender drew another foaming glass, and set it out on the long 
table before he answered. 

" Shure, yis, it's hard on Moike, an' him that fond o' childer ! An' thin, 
too, they all dies that young that he can't hiv thim inshured in no lodge nor 


nothin', an' so the poor unfort'nate bye does be alius a-payin' fur func/yrals. 
It kapes 'im poor, it does. Inthermints is got to be moighty costhly av late. 
It's the hard toimes does it." 

"De times — yes, he iss fery hardt." Dutch Peter blew a great cloud 
of smoke all around his head, and spoke from its obscurity. The bartender 
came out from behind his counter and sat on the table beside Peter, swinging 
his heels and nibbling at a pretzel. "Bud, in spite of de times, two kinder 
are dere togeder dis eferning up at de house of Mike. Dot iss so." 

" Roight ye air! It's how Oi'm not manin' to say nothin' 'ginst the 
toimes in gineral, not Oi ! An' Oi've knowed these foive days an' more as 
there was two Macnamarra kids 'shtid o' one ; fur Moike, he says to me, a 
wake ago come Sathurday noight, as how he shouldn't be down town wid de 
boys fur a matther av tin days. Says he, 'In view o' the circumshtances, 
Mrs. Macnamarra hez decoided not to give me but tin dollars o' me month's 
pay, 'shtid o' fiftayne ; an' even so Oi'm not at liberty to expind those tin. 
So the kid lives, there's the christhenin' to be paid for, an' iv it ups an' doies, 
shure, there's an illigant an' commo'jous funayral to be pervoided for. Oi 
shall not come down town. Possibly Oi may niver onct lave Missis Mac- 
namarra and the bye,' says he. The christhenin' comes off the noight, Oi'm 

The bartender cast a withering glance of triumph at Peter, but that good 
soul did not realize how flat his news had fallen. He smoked placidly on, 
solemnly tapping his empty glass. 

"The noight it is, ain't it?" the bartender repeated. 

"You are reet. It iss to-night," answered the serene Peter. 

"Shure, it's gay ould times they're havin', thin! Oi'm hopin', fur 
'Poley's sake, that there bean't no foightin' goin' on. 'Poley's the onluckiest 
kid that ever saw dirt. Ivery foight av the year, an' 'Poley's gettin' some 
hurt av it ! Most onlucky ! " 

" Ja ! It iss von goot leetle kid, but it iss also von fery onlucky. He iss 
too risksome, und he is not the strongest. He iss fery leetle, und fery — oh, 
so t'in ! Bud he can blay like — like ze greet Azarael engel ! " 

Peter's knowledge of mythology was not the clearest, and scarcely equal 
to this unwonted call upon his memory and imagination. He sat in silence 
for a moment, vaguely feeling that he had made a mistake, but unable to tell 


where it lay. The bartender, however, who was born in a free country, and 
so had grown up in orthodox ignorance of all save his Paternoster and the 
names of a few authorized saints, was impressed by the German's learning. 

"He cooms down to mine house, und teks mine instrument und blays 
und blays upon her. It iss fery vundervoll how dat he can ven he iss von so 
leetle a boy. I lend her to him many viles to blay upon. Napoleon is a 
greet leetle boy." 

The barkeeper, with half a pretzel hanging from his mouth, nodded 
sagely. At that moment the saloon door was banged violently open, and a 
man burst in panting and breathless. 

" An, Pathrick, me bye, have ye heard the news ? No, but yez haven't, 
fur, shure, Oi'm the first man o' the town to know about it, bein' sint by 
Moikel himsilf fur the docthor ! Arrah, it's a strange tale av a christhenin' 
to be tellt ; an' it's out o' brith Oi am wid runnin' ! " 

"Have some beer, Thomas O'Morrissey, an' mebby ye'll be gittin' yer 
brith the quicker for it. An' phwhat is yer great news all about, at all?" 
inquired the bartender, taking the full glass from the table and offering it to 
the newcomer. 

Thomas O'Morrissey drank thirstily, picked several pretzels from the 
bowl on the table, and seated himself comfortably in an armchair before he 

" Shure, it was all along o' the gallantry o' Jimmy Hinnigan in the first 
place. He come to the christhenin', havin' had a full plinty to dhrink down 
town afore he shtarted, an', feelin' merry an' jokin'-loike, he begins shtraight 
off a-courthin' Mary Maloney. But Mary, she's slow an' quite-loike, besides 
bein' somewhat ould fur sich flimmuries, an' she wouldn't have nothin' to say 
wid him, the pore man ! It's the mate an' the dhrink was flowin' ginerous up 
at Moike's to-noight, an' Jimmy Hinnigan wasn't niver yit the man to thurn 
away good vittles in wastefulniss. Fur that rayson, he partook ginerous an' 
did himsilf proud, did Jimmy." 

" Oi'll bet on Jimmy fur that, ava ! " 

"Bud vy do you vant de doctor for dat? Iss he gone sick of it?" 
inquired Peter, in wonder. 

" Not he. The bye's used to a thrifle loike that, me man ! It's a sairious 
matther what's requoirin' the docthor's attindance, an' iv only ye'll listhen, 
Oi'm tellin' ye." 


"Be shtill, Peter!" growled the bartender. 

"Long o' eight o'clock, Father Corcoran he came up for the cirimony. 
The good man was no sooner beginnin', an' about to go namin' av the babby, 
than Jimmy Hinnigan, he up an' took Mary Maloney by the tops av her 
shlaves, an' shtood her up 'ginst the wall, side o' him, an' yells out, says he, 
' Your riverince is givin' us the wrong cirimony inthoirely ! ' says he. ' Ye're 
called for to marry us two, an', shure, iv ye're waitin' much longer about' it, 
the lady'll be changin' her moind. Jist hustle it up a bit, your riverince, an' 
ye can do the pray in' aftherwards,' says he. 

.'"All in good toime, Jimmy!' says Father Corcoran, pleasant as you 
please. 'All in good toime ; but as Oi've a couple av wakes over in Hamtown 
to look in upon layther in the aveniu', it wud be a great favor to me iv ye 
could jist put off the little affair till noon to-morrow.' 

" ''Tis absholutely impossayble !' yelled Jimmy thin. 

" ' All roight, me lad ! " says Father Corcoran. " Only, as Oi've got so 
well shtarted in the christhenin', it would be a bad job to shtop short av the 
name. Wouldn't it, now?' 

"Iverybody, 'ceptin' Jimmy an' Mary Maloney, was a-laughin' an' 
a-screamin' by that. Jimmy he got mad. 

' ' ' She's a most decaitful young cat av a woman ! ' says he. ' She's afther 
breakin' me heart desthructively these thray toimes alridy, an' now ye'd be 
hilpin' her to the fourth av 'em. Shame on ye ! Now, will ye be marryin' 
av us, or won't ye ? ' 

"Thin Father Corcoran was for shmoothin' av him down, but Mary she 
shpoke out steady an' pleasant wid : ' Oh, come ye, now, Jimmy, behave ! 
Don't ye bother an' pesther his riverince, but come out into the kitchen along 
o' me. There's a whole new stim av bananys i' the coal scuttle ahint the door.' 

"An' Jimmy he wint. The christhenin' got on very well widdout him. 
Thin, afther Father Corcoran had got safely out o' the front window an' over 
the hill an' away to Hamtown, we wint to the riscue av Mary. We come 
on Jimmy, roarin' dhrunk, a-settin' on a tin dish pan an' singin' through a 
flour sifter an' feedin' Mary bananys. He hadn't eat none himsilf, but Mary 
she was on her eleventh, an' glad an' ready to die. Bananys are powerful 
hard ayten. 

" Thin, 'twas the matther how to get rid o' Jimmy. He was too 


dhrunk to get sobered, an' shure, there wasn't enough whiskey in all that 
house to make him any dhrunker. He was pretty thorough, alridy. So we 
didn't know phwhat to do wid him. Lastly, we put 'im out o' doors, wid a 
sthrong man to sit on 'im, which same sthrong man did fail to do his dooty 
most outrageous. Along o' the middle av the avenin, whin 'Poley was 
playin', an' iverybody wid two good fate was a-dancin' an' a-dancin', Oi 
heard a tremenjious shoutin'. On going out to inquoire, what should Oi 
foind but Jimmy Hinnigan, dancin' on the sthrong man, what he'd taken off 
his gaard, an shimlantherin loike mad. We sthraightway atthimpted to dis- 
arm him, — which is to say, raymove his boots, — whin the bye pulled out 
a stick av giant dinimoite powther outen his pocket, an' clared a thrack fur 
himsilf loively. He marches sthraight into that comp'ny wid his powther 
in 's hand, an' begins to make a spache. Thin, in honor av the cilibration, 
'e sets that sthick of powther off at the front window. That was a gorjious 
blast ! 'Poley's hurt, an' Jimmy himsilf is wantin' a hand, an' siveral others 
has lost various thriflin' mimbers. An' that's phwhy Oi'm sint for the 

" Dot iss sad to me for 'Poley. He iss a goot boy. Iss he badly 
brocken?" inquired the German anxiously. 

" Oi can't say. Shure, it's his backbone — riot to mintion that the 
babby's kilt intoirely." 

"Dot vass too bad. Now must I gif him my little box of joinings," 
said Peter, and rose and shuffled away without another word. 

The bartender looked curious. " What's thim?" he asked. 

"He means his accorgeon," exclaimed Thomas O'Morrissey. "He 
lends it to 'Poley, 'cause 'Poley ain't got nothin' o' his own but a mouth- 

Little Napoleon Macnamarra was being taken to a hospital. His hurt 
had been even more serious than O'Morrissey feared ; and as soon as the 
wake and the burying were out of the way, and the baby brother had be- 
come only one of the number of half-forgotten babies who were so com- 
mon in the annals of his house, Napoleon set out on his journey. 

It was a sorrowful procession, although of an odd appearance. First 
came a great black barouche, lent by a livery man, which the grocer's 


horse, a shaggy, little, old animal, drew. In the barouche, propped and bol- 
stered on three feather beds and numberless pillows, rode Napoleon and his- 
mother, she sitting very straight, with her bonnet put on awry, he lying 
helplessly in a valley of feather beds, but playing "John Brown's Body," 
in stirring time, on his old red accordeon. Father Corcoran tramped along 
beside the carriage, and gave directions to the urchin who was driving. 
After him walked a mixed multitude of the child's friends, old men and boys, 
and even women. " John Brown's Body " wheezed on, and they all fell into 
step; finally, indeed, they fell to singing the final couplet of each verse 
as they walked : — 

" John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, 
Whilst we go marchin' on! " 

Last of all, squeaking a weary accompaniment to the grisly refrain, came a 
handcart, which contained provisions for the journey. As the morning ad- 
vanced, boiled eggs, bread, cold roast pork, jelly, cheese, cookies, and like 
dainties were produced from it, and handed forward down the line. Only 
Toley would eat nothing. He didn't want it ; he was going to the hos- 
pital to have his backbone mended so that he could go in swimming again 
with the other fellows, and the thought of that miracle was nourishment 
enough for him. He had not moved a foot for six days now, and his arms 
were uncomfortably stiff. But Father Corcoran — and Father Corcoran 
knew — had said that the doctors at the hospital could make him as good 
as new in a couple of days; so he played "John Brown " quite gayly as 
he lay there in the midst of his feather beds, and watched eagerly for a first 
glimpse of the hospital towers in front of them. 

Poor little Napoleon ! He was in miracle land so short a time, and 
was hurried out of its light so rudely ! Poor little man ! 

It was all over. The doctors had looked at his back and his stiffened 
feet, and had asked a few questions, and then told him that he must go 
home again, because they had no place for him. And afterwards, when his 
mother was gone from the room, 'Poley in his turn had asked a few ques- 
tions, and had listened to the old surgeon with dazed ears, his big eyes 
frightened and unseeing. He was to go home, — to be a brave little man, 
— never to walk again, — not to cry, because, well, because it wouldn't be 


long. How long? Perhaps one week, perhaps two. No, it wouldn't hurt 
him at all, now ; he would just — die. That would be all. 

And so Napoleon was carried out to his barouche, and laid gently down 
among the pillows and feather-beds, and nobody of all his retinue knew that 
his kingdom would soon be gone. Poor little emperor ! 

The procession' formed again, and set out for home, the barouche lead- 
ing as before, and the victual cart bringing up the rear. The whole com- 
pany had a tired but satisfied air, like men who have done their whole 
duty and been successful in part of it. The rumor had gone down the line 
that 'Poley might go home at once, instead of having to stay for several 
days in the hospital, and that he was much better. They were very glad. 
There was music, too, coming back to them from the barouche ; and, 
though it was " Comrades," or " Auld Lang Syne," or " Sweet Home," that 
the boy played this time, nobody missed the gallant lilt of "John Brown." 

"Yes, it vas peeties, — great peeties ! " sighed old Peter mournfully, as 
he drank his beer. "He vas von fery fine leetle boy, de Napoleon. He 
could blay — oh, fery goot ! He vas blayin' de day of de deaf. He vas 
blaying your 'Home' on my leetle box of joinings ven he die." 

"Pore 'Poley ! It's a great kid he was, indade ! " returned the barten- 
der. It was late at night, and Peter was his only listener, so that he 
could allow himself a little sentimental grief without much loss of dignity. 

"Bud, ven you beliefs it, or ven you do not, yet it iss so, dass das 
mine leetle box of joinings vill not since blay any gay, or vat may be 
merry, songs, bud alvays de sad ones. Und I myself haf try it, und I 
haf mek other peoples try it, bud it do alvays sing de sorrowfuls. Dot 
iss so strange, no?" 

" It is that," answered the bartender, dryly. 


Although the mercury outdoors, one August afternoon, stood at the 
ordinary dog-day figure of eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit, the usual chill 
hung in the air as I entered the Mortons' back parlor. I knew from long 
experience that the high-backed haircloth lounge, with a hard, fat cushion 


erect in each corner, was uncompromisingly cold and slippery: and the tall, 
unused coal stove, swathed in its summer veil of white mosquito net, always 
looked half shivering in rusty disuse. I suppose that without my hostess 
the room would have seemed an ordinary New England parlor, — darkened 
for comfort and soothingly cool, — but with Miss Deborah Morton sitting 
stifliy erect in a mahogany chair, the result was frigidity. 

I cannot imagine Miss Deborah in a warm atmosphere. Even in the 
winter when the tall stove has lost its veil the coal burns uncertainly, as if 
chilled by her influence. Perhaps this is partly my imagination, but the 
sensation of frosty air surrounding Miss Deborah is strong in my mind. It 
dates back to the September morning when, a little girl with stiffly starched 
pinafore, I spelled out my first reading lesson at her knee. 

She looked pretty in her own chilly fashion this afternoon sitting by the 
window with her lavender sprigged muslin falling about her in crisp folds. 
"When she turned her short-sighted gray eyes toward me, I remembered the 
tiny, forgotten rip in my glove. She laid down her book as I entered, but 
for some minutes she did not speak. As I unrolled my embroidery I saw 
that her book was " Jane Field," by Mary Wilkins. 

' ' In the hurry of your daily life have you ever found leisure to peruse 
the writings of Miss Wilkins?" she asked, at last, with judicial slowness. 
Miss Deborah enjoyed rhetorical effects. I never knew her to use a word of 
two syllables when one more imposing could be found. , 

" Yes'm, a little," said I. 

My childish assent slipped out unawares. Once with five hundred long 
miles between us, I had resolved to stop answering "Yes'm" to Miss Deb- 
orah's questions. Now that I sat under the gaze of those steely eyes, I was 
surprised at a thought so bold. 

"Her sketches of New England life are so entertaining, but so untrue 
to life," she continued. "Take, for example, the occasion upon which one 
of the characters, in ' Jane Field,' made a three days' excursion to Boston. 
Do you recollect how she placed ten saucers of milk for the refreshment of 
her cat during her absence? I am certain that no New England lady would 
behave in so ludicrous a fashion." 

"In fact," she went on after a moment, " my sister Anne and I have 
for years spent the first w r eek in October with our cousins in Winchester. I 
am sure that our behavior is never peculiar." 


I embroidered silently while Miss Deborah impaled a vagrant fly on a 
hard folded newspaper lying on the window. After she had borne away the 
victim to the kitchen stove she spoke again in a tone almost confidential. 

"And do you know," she said, " how Anne and I dispose of the under- 
garments which we wear immediately before our depai'ture? When we are 
dressed for the journey, we bring our soiled underwear to the kitchen table, 
from which the cloth has previously been removed. With a pair of shears 
I cut the garments into small portions, that their original shape may not be 
recognized. Then, while I cleanse the shears and table, Anne takes the 
portions, and, going to the back garden, buries them near the spice-rose 
bushes in a hole prepared earlier in the day. You observe," she finished 
proudly, " that by this simple method we avoid the unpleasant conversation 
which would be consequent upon the discovery of soiled linen in the house, 
if it were opened in case of conflagration." 

We were silent after Miss Deborah finished her burst of confidence. I 
was looking out the window, past the gay-colored hollyhock spikes, and past 
the stiff lines of red poppies to the spice-rose bushes, where the graves of 
those small bits of linen lay. I was thinking of the justification to Miss 
Wilkins if some of her unfavorable critics had listened with me that after- 
noon to Miss Deborah's little story. 

Finally, I rose to go. " My dear," said Miss Deborah, with calm assur- 
ance, as she gave me her chilly finger tips at parting, "I am positive that 
your mature deliberation, coupled with your own good sense, will convince 
you that Miss Wilkins, while possessing an excellent command of language, 
yet greatly exaggerates the peculiarities of New England womanhood." 

"Yes'm," said I. 

Sara Sumner Emery. 


Days and nights were likely to be long at Cartrets. The group of wits 
and sages who spent their leisurely Kentucky afternoons and evenings in the 
hotel office realized the fact, and made efforts to amuse themselves. The 
result was a strain which even the wit of Cartrets could scarcely have with- 
stood, if Providence had not interposed Sym Reeve. He was an hereditary 


benefactor of the town. The jests made at his expense by the fathers were 
passed down to the sons and lost none of their relish in the passing. Even 
his appearance in the office was the signal for an outburst of hilarity. When 
some wag was inspired to call him "green 'Simmons," Cartrets took up the 
idea with enthusiasm, and as "green 'Simmons " will Andrew Symington 
Reeve be handed down by the traditions of the town. Even the smallest of 
the "little niggers" who respectfully saluted him as " Cap'en " while in 
caning distance, when once out of reach would shout at him, "He's green 
'Simmons," and then scurry around a corner. Small boys, white and black, 
knew no more fearful pleasure than such long distance conversations with 
Sym, and the exciting chase which followed. 

Cartrets boasted but one main street, and that was apparently pervaded 
by Sym Reeve. Early in the day he was concerned with the weightier 
matters of life, and spent his time talking in front of the shops and on the 
street corners. Later, social duties claimed him, and almost any summer 
afternoon he might be seen leaning on a gate post in conversation with one 
of his innumerable cousins and aunts. Years passed, the young shoots in 
Cartrets- budded and blossomed and sent up other young shoots, but Sym 
remained unchanged. When babies were taken out for their first airing 
they got an early impression of deep-set twinkling eyes that inspected them 
from under bushy eyebrows, of a tall, stooped figure, a flapping coat, and a 
soft felt hat. By the time they were a year old the impression had become 
positive knowledge. They grew up, as it were, under the flapping of Sym's 
coat, and after they were grown the sight of it would often throw them into 
a reminiscent mood. 

The associations, whatever they may have been, which the youthful 
mind connected with Sym at ordinary times, produced on circus day a fever 
of expectation. At this climax of the year he was invariably seen making 
his way toward the circus tents, followed by a little procession of eager kilts 
and pinafores. Once within he treated his following to unlimited pop corn 
and pink lemonade, a source of present pleasure, future pain, and still more 
distant delightful recollection. Sym showed no partiality to sex, but gath- 
ered his crowd indiscriminately. Very small boys never made objection to 
the plan, nor found the small girls a hindrance to their enjoyment of the 
elephant. When, however, the very small became the merely small boys, 


when they forsook kilts for trousers, and began to hate all the girl part of 
creation, then also they gave up their loyalty to Sym. They usually allowed 
the revolt to smoulder until after circus day. After that event they braced 
themselves to the deed and followed in the footsteps of their fathers. At 
the first favorable opportunity they shouted around a corner at Sym, " Cups 
to the bush, Cap'en, cups to the bush ! " then took to their reprobate young 
heels. It was the Rubicon which all the boys of Cartrets crossed sooner or 
later. After such a proceeding the graceless youngsters were never again 
invited to one of Sym's circus parties. 

The famous ' ' cups to the bush " story was one of Cartrets' most treas- 
ured relics of the war. It is possible, speaking from the town's point of 
view, that Morgan made his raid through Kentucky chiefly that this inci- 
dent might happen. As in other traditions, however, the facts of the case 
had become slightly blurred in the lapse of time. The story was, therefore, 
told with variations, but the climax was always the same. Sym and the 
town militia appeared riding home at breakneck speed, and casting off 
unnecessary equipment by the way. The rank and file of the town pinned 
their faith to the tale. Even the most conservative adopted the attitude that 
it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. As for Sym himself, whenever he 
heard the story in the process of evolution in the hotel office, he swore 
frankly and with true Southern abandon. Yet when one of the urchins of 
the town shouted "cups to the bush" at him, he contented himself with 
shaking his stick at the offender and remarking that "some fool fellow had 
been telling that child lies." 

As a daily occupation, Sym, rather late in life, took up journalism. 
He made his appearance in the field as reporter to the Cartrets Weekly 
Beagle. It was a case of the office seeking the man. The Beagle's limited 
finances could scarcely have afforded a more expensive reporter. Sym asked 
no payment, and had all night and day for spare time. Moreover, he knew 
all the comings and goings of his relatives, and as the Reeve " connection" 
included most of the town, and not a few of the surrounding county, Sym 
was no mean addition to the " staff." He was not asked to write the politi- 
cal columns, since he was that frowned-upon anomaly, a Southern Republi- 
can. Parties and weddings were beyond his scope, because his one adjec- 
tive, " elegant," could not meet all the demands of the situation. But in the 


personals and obituaries he was at home. He reported faithfully the move- 
ments of his townsmen while they lived, and when they were dead, wrote 
them two-columned obituaries, never failing to dwell on the family history 
and the great grandfather who came from Virginia. Cartrets usually smiled 
when Sym mentioned the first settlers, but secretly they felt a tickling of 
pride at the mention of a Revolutionary ancestor. 

Reporting was Sym's pastime. "What he regarded as his business, so far 
as he had one, was keeping in order and repair the town's first graveyard. In 
it were buried the Virginia emigrants who were, apparently, the common 
ancestors of Sym and the rest of the town. As a place for interment, the 
old church burying ground had been disused since the Avar. The fence had 
fallen down, and the ragweed and jimpson had grown up rank and tall. It 
was only when the wind parted the grasses that the old tombstones appeared 
and disappeared in ghostly fashion. Sym's interest in the place was more 
than genealogical. His mother and father had been buried within its close, 
and sometime during his youth he had followed thither his wife and his 
little son. 

Sym found it hard work to arouse in Cartrets an interest in its ances- 
tors, at least an interest penetrating enough to reach the purse. Xo atten- 
tion was paid to his various shifts to raise money for the cemetery, until the 
Beagle gave notice that he would lecture on the history of Lee County. 
Then the laugh that went around the hotel stove spread even beyond town 
limits. The crowd that flocked to hear him were bent on mischief. The 
small boys, however, who went to the " speakin'" bursting with anticipation, 
came home sick of the world. For some yet unexplained reason, the scoffers 
did nothing but sit quietly and listen. The few who were absent could not 
afterwards find out in what Sym's eloquence lay. The lecture, however pain- 
fully prepared, could be easily condensed. Certain early settlers, all of 
them, in fact, had "raised large and elegant families," and were buried in 
the old church burying ground. The orator himself, according to report, 
" puffed and spluttered" more than ever. AVhatever maybe the truth at 
the bottom of this little well, two things are certain. The wits of the hotel 
office were in no humor for joking the next morning, and, what is more to 
the point, Sym afterwards had no lack of funds for restoring the cemetery. 
In a short time improvements appeared in the disguise of a barbed-wire 
fence and a row of young locust trees. 


Besides raising money for the burying ground, Syrn had one other 
steady occupation. It was reforming from the vice of strong drink. His 
father before him, like more than one gentleman of the old school, had been 
fond of his cups, and had spent many anight filling them up. The old squire 
had caroused in a gentlemanly way and always at home. Poor Sym could 
exercise no such control over his thirst. Whenever the pittance from the 
remains of his father's estate fell due, he went off on what Cartrets called a 
"grand spree." In such a state he remained till all his money was gone, 
then he reformed. The process of the reformation was this. He went to 
call on one of his aunts or cousins, drew her a picture of the miseries of in- 
temperance, and declared that he was no longer its victim. When, however, 
his next interest was paid him, Sym fell again. Cartrets, especially the 
women, looked with great leniency on this continually repeated rise and fall 
of Virtue. " Sym can't help it," they explained. " He is like his father be- 
fore him. There always was a wild streak in the Reeves." 

The circle in the hotel office would have been sceptical at the sugges- 
tion that Sym had any particular use in the world beyond amusing them. 
They were saved the exertion, however, for no one thought of suggesting 
such a thing. True, there were children who would have gone without 
candies and toys but for him. Young lovers had occasion to remember his 
friendly nod and wink preceding just the right bit of news, to draw off the 
eyes of watchful elders. In sickness, his visits were scarcely less regular 
than the doctor's, and he had spent more than one night bathing feverish 
hands and faces. Poor Sym ! He built on a sandy foundation. Children 
are an ungrateful tribe, and lovers and sick people forget, when they are 
themselves again. There was only one in Cartrets who never forgot. He 
indeed counted for little, an old grizzled darkey who always took off his cap 
to Sym, and welcomed him with an affectionate and toothless smile. Sym 
had nursed him through the smallpox once, and he, strange to say, returned 
the kindness with proud and faithful devotion. 

What Sym was before age stooped his shoulders and dissipation hol- 
lowed his eyes, no one in Cartrets seemed to remember. Perhaps the lady 
with curls over her ears and breadths of crinoline in her petticoats, who had 
her daguerreotype taken for him, might have told. But she lay asleep in the 
old church burying ground, and Cartrets had long since forgotten her. 

Bernice O. Kelly, '99. 



I'm a ghost! 

I can boast 
Of a quality distilled 
Through the nine times I've been killed, 

Of an odor alcoholic, 

Of a spirit diabolic; 

For I'm made 

From the shade 
Of a laboratory cat, 
Filtered through a boiling vat. 

And I roam 

The gloam, 
With the fiendish category 
Of the fifth floor laboratory. 

Miouw ! 

As I prowl 

I yowl, 

With a weird, unearthly howl. 

I hiss 

In the bliss 

Of a cataleptic fit, 

And I spit. 
True, I've lost my lachrymse, 
And my segments vertebrse 
Are slightly disarranged; 

But what of that ! 
I have several extra carpals, * 
Hygienic metacarpals. 
There's a phosphorescent gleam 
My occipitals between, 
And a horrid flame eternal 
'Twixt my ribs and segments sternal; 
The mere vision of me seen, 
'Twould kill a rat. 

So I roam 

The gloam 
With the fiendish category 
Of the fifth floor laboratory. 
May I go to purgatory. 


Mary Hefferan, '96. 



The town of Rawlins, Wyoming, is built on the slope of one of the 
bare, ugly mountains that stretch themselves for weary miles along the route 
of the Union Pacific Railway. The streets run on one side of the tracks 
only, and are at right angles to them, so that when you pass in the train 
you can look straight down their treeless, wind-swept lengths to where they 
stop in their sandy, dizzy climb up the mountain. 

At the foot of the main street, close to the freight-train and hand-car 
covered tracks, stand the railroad buildings, all painted a dark red, and roofed 
with corrugated iron, which draws the heat and fairly blisters the dry frames 
underneath. On either side of the plank walk that leads to the passenger 
station is a neat parallelogram of ground, securely inclosed by a fence of 
iron pipes painted in the red of the buildings. These modest plots boast a 
democratic array of various triumphs in the line of vegetation. Passengers 
grown soul-sick of the sad wastes of gray sagebrush and white alkali dust, 
welcome these patches of green with broad impartiality. For the greatest 
part of the day during the hot summer months, when the earth lies withered 
in the glare of sunlight, and everything but the tireless canon wind has 
ceased activity, the station is deserted. But about eleven o'clock in the 
morning, when the West-bound makes its twenty-minute stop, and again at 
three in the afternoon, when the East-bound rushes in panting and parched, 
ready for a deep breath and a long draught of water from the huge, red 
tank, — at these two hours the place suddenly swarms with men. They 
stand idly about or lounge on the iron pipes, watching, with the interested 
gaze of lonely people, the passengers as they jump eagerly from the train to 
snatch a tasteless bite in the dining room, or rest their travel-AVorn bodies 
by a brisk walk up and down the platform. 

On one of the most blowy, scorching days of the August of two years 
ago, just as the train was pulling in from the East, a young man carrying a 
cornet case came down the main street. He walked with an easy gait 
through the groups of newly-alighted passengers, and went into the room 
that bore over its outside door the signboard with the familiar blue ground 
and white lettering of Western Union Telegraph offices. He passed without 
the preliminary of a preparative knock through the " No Admittance " 


door; and stepping up behind the operator, who sat bent over his machine, 
gave that gentleman's hair a jovial pull. 

" Hello, Williams," he said, with a cheerful grin ; " I'm off." 

"Yes, Minor," said Williams, rubbing a sympathetic hand down a 
rather lengthy shock of brown hair, " yes, I feel that you are, decidedly so." 

He stood up and enei'getically waved a palm leaf fan before his flushed face. 

" All ready for the run, are you? " he went on. "Hope the concert will 
be a great success, old fellow. I'd go on myself if I could. You really 
need somebody to stir the applause now and then." 

"Tact isn't strictly in your line, Williams. You may remember my 
having said so before. But the remark doesn't enfeeble with age. But, 
really, I wish you were coming." 

" Sorry, but I can't. Allison is gone and has left the place to me. He 
doesn't get back until the three this afternoon, and you know we've only the 
one West-bound on now." 

" Yes, I know r . I wanted to go out this afternoon myself. As it is, 
I'll have a whole day in that forsaken spot, Rock Springs. If you'd come 
it wouldn't be so bad. You mi«ht « e t some other fellow to run this one- 
horse affair of yours." 

Williams straightened two broad shoulders in mock hauteur. 

"If it is only a one-horse affair you're the only fellow in town besides 
myself that can manage the beast. It would hardly pay, I think, to have 
you stay and me go. Your audience w r ould be glad to see me and all that, 
but they'd scarcely want to exchange your cornet for my clapping, even if 
I am an expert." 

Minor threw a slow glance of pretended anxiety on his friend. 

" Aren't you a bit worried over this unusual burst of modesty. Your 
lofty spirit glows and shines so, — I'm fairly sunburned. O, I say, the very 
piece of music I wanted to take of all others I've left up at my rooms on the 
piano. I put it under the lid last night so as to be sure to have it at hand 
this morning for the rehearsal. Blake didn't come up and I forgot all about 
it. I guess I'll have time to run up for it now." 

"Don't be an idiot, Frank. I wouldn't risk a sunstroke this day, not 
for any audience. There won't be half a dozen there that know what you 
play, anyway." 



"You know what I mean. Do you suppose they're going to hear you 
because you play fine music and because they have an appreciative ear? Not 
much. They probably know you're going to the Conservatory on the money 
you take in to-night, and they'd probably go just as willingly if you played 
Yankee Doodle nine times running and gave it as an encore after each one." 

"Whew ! You don't mind a generous eweep now and then, do you? 
I know they're not as discriminating as- you and all my neighbors — but then, 
the Rock Springs people haven't heard me practicing these same things for 
weeks. I said I'd bring that piece and I will. It's my best one. I won't 
run in on my way back. I'll just make the train." 

" Good luck to you, Frank. If you get blown to the top of the moun- 
tain or buried in this infernal sand, just toot up on your ' Martyrs ' and 
I'll " 

The slam of the screen door impatiently snapped off the rest of his 

As Minor left the station he made a rapid time calculation. "I've just 
about fifteen minutes. I've walked one way often in five. That gives me a 
generous margin of five minutes to get my music and board my train." 

As he swung off up the street his glowing vitality contrasted strongly 
with the dull deadness of the place. He had not lived long enough in its 
colorless desolation to have had his freshness and energy sapped. Frank 
Minor was a young man without parents and without money, of a cheerful, 
plucky disposition and sensible ambitions. He was of a practical turn, and 
bent all his energies to make these aspirations realities, instead of dreaming 
idly about them. His position of the last year had left all his evenings free 
for practice. He had used the hours wisely (even his neighbors reluctantly 
admitted the virtue of his perseverance), and made material progress. His 
teacher, a man of discernment and sympathy, had secured engagements for 
him at Ogden, Rock Springs, and Evanston. The first concert was to be 
given that night at Rock Springs, some ninety miles away. He was full of 
a natural nervousness over the outcome of his venture. Apart from his real 
interest in the material side of the affair — apart from his 1 founding hopes of 
large audiences, and his sickening fears of small scattered ones — he felt the 
novice's strong; desire to show his art for what it was worth and for what it 


meant ; and he felt quite as keenly an uncomfortable dread of his not being 
able to please or to reach his audience. 

When he reached his room he found that the blinds had been drawn. He 
groped his way through the half darkness and felt under the lid of the piano 
for his music. It was not there. 

"Perhaps it's at the other end," he grumbled, as he stumbled awk- 
wardly over the piano stool. Not there, either. He walked to the windows 
and threw open the blinds. The sunlight broke through the room in broad, 
dust-laden bands. Minor went thoughtfully across the room and sat down 
on the piano stool. 

"Let me see; I was sitting just here, and I laid it down so; and I 
remember saying " 

But the experiment was only a cold help to his memory. It traced the 
music to the corner under the lid, and left it there. Minor tossed over the 
loose sheets that lay strewn in hopeless confusion on the top of the piano 
and upon the chair. 

"Well, I'll take this as substitute. I'm not quite up on it, and that 
other is just the thing " 

He opened his case, and there on the top lay the missing sheet. He 
was so simply glad in the finding of it that he forgot to be ill-natured with his 
lapse of memory. He even laughed indulgently over its untimely desertion. 

" What a memory I. have, — I mean haven't." He snapped his case to- 
gether and ran down the stairs and out into the street. 

The wind blew rudely about him and tossed sand into his smarting eyes. 
As he was making his last block a strong gust swept under the brim of his 
hat and hurled it triumphantly across the street. He scurried after it, and 
stooped with the energy of exasperation to pick it up. It slipped torment- 
ingly from his grasp, and lay still a few feet farther on. He ran again and 
almost threw himself upon it. The crown gave a crackling little gasp of 
surrender as his weight came upon it. He put it, rather battered from its 
escapade, on his head. 

" You look a bit crest-fallen," he said with a whimsical smile, and then 
gave a quick look down to the station. A sudden spasm of dread seized 
him. He heard distinctly again the "All aboard" of the conductors. He 
rubbed a fresh flirt of sand from his eyes and looked again. The train ready 


to stai"t, and he could not catch it ! For a second everything swam black 
and upside down before him. Then the momentary paralysis left him. He 
broke into a fast run and shouted in a harsh, loud voice. But the officials 
were looking up and down the platform for a chance unwarned passenger. 
He saw, as he ran, the men stroll leisurely up to the steps of the cars. He saw 
the women running in nervous little groups toward their particular sleepers. 
He heard those farther away call " Conductor ! Conductor ! " in hysterical fem- 
inine bursts. The bell gave its final signal . The engine put forth two or three 
impatient snorts, the wheels began to glide along the tracks, and the train puffed 
slowly from the station. Minor dashed, panting and calling, past the bewild- 
ered hangers-on, down the platform and out on to the tracks. But the train was 
already running at full speed, and was almost out of sight. The diner made up 
the end of the train, and two or three waiters were standing on its rear plat- 
form watching Minor as he ran desperately and vainly along. Their rows of 
white teeth framed longer and longer canals across their dusky cheeks. 
They were full of merriment over the little episode. The cook leaned for- 
ward and threw out the end of a towel toward Minor, offering, in rude pan- 
tomime,. to pull him along if he would only grasp its unreachable corner. 
Minor drew himself up quite suddenly and stopped, — spent and breathless. 
He stood quite still in the burning sunshine watching until the last cloud of 
wind-hurled smoke had scattered its heavy, cindery mass on the mountain 
side. It is never a careless sight, — this going out of a train from a lonely 
town in the dreary fastnesses of the Rockies. The last far-off rumblings of 
its steaming, boisterous vitality are the last faint echoes of the mighty throb 
from the great world-heart, — a heart that, for these towns, beats but twice 
in the long twenty-four hours. To-day it meant more than this to Minor. 
That great, rude engine had borne away in its mannerless grasp the triumph 
of a long striving, the blossoming of carefully grown hopes. 

He was not wholly unreasonable in putting so tragic a face upon the 
matter. It was not merely a case of a postponed engagement which he 
could fill the next day, or the next week, or the next month. In the first 
place one's audience does not come so easily at one's beck and call. And 
even if he could be sure of them the fact could not help him. He could not 
be there himself. In his position of secretary to the Inspector of Roads and 
Bridges, he was bound first to consider his employer. There was on hand 


some important construction work along the Snake River. Mr. Clark had 
shown him a real favor in giving him the three days for his concerts. It 
would be beyond the limits of decency to ask for another three at such a time. 

He dragged himself, exhausted and purposeless, past the freight trains 
and hand cars to the blue sign with the white lettering. Once in the office 
he sank mutely into a chair. Williams turned and saw a limp figure and a 
colorless face. 

" Great heavens, Frank ! " he almost shouted ; " wdiat's happened?" 

In his sudden weakness Minor found speech impossible. He gave a 
comical smile, half of apology and half of misery, and waved one shaking 
hand toward the west, pointing the other at himself. Williams understood, 
and was silent. He poured out a glass of brandy from a flask in his desk 
and Minor drained it gratefully. 

When they finally began to talk over the situation Minor showed him- 
self humanly eager to free himself from blame in having missed the train. 
He was only half-satisfied with Williams's assurance that the train had come 
in two minutes late, and had gone out on time. The other three minutes 
Minor was forced to confess on the credit side of his account. He thought 
with a rush of self-accusations of his search for his music and the chase after 
his hat. Williams, in the loyalty of his friendship, stoutly protested against 
the possibility of blame in the action of Minor, and laid unreasonable charges 
at the doors of the engineers and conductors. They sat rather silently after 
that. Williams would have liked to offer consolation, but he could find noth- 
ing cheerful in the situation, and although Minor would have grasped eagerly 
at any chance of release from his difficulty, no plan offered itself. The 
most discouraging part of the aftair lay in the fact that he had lost not Rock 
Springs alone, but Evanston and Ogden also. Their relative positions and 
railroad connections were such that to have missed one meant to miss all. 
They had a brief hope in his being able to drive from Rawlins to Rock 
Springs. In a country so mountainous frequent change of horses would be 
imperative. They telegraphed to the various towns that lay between to en- 
gage teams to meet Minor as he drove through. The Wamsutter operator 
sent back a facetious effort : — 

" Only five horses in town and they're not here." Williams took time 
to call the fellow a fool before he took down the messages of the Black 
Buttes and Bitter Creek operators. They, too, said there were no horses. 


Minor suggested wheeling. Williams turned on him scornfully. 

"That road is either straight up or straight down. Suppose you could 
wheel part of the way and drive the rest. You'd be a dead man when you 
got to Rock Springs." 4 

In the face of such a contingency, Minor was ready to relinquish the 
plan. The morning wore gloomily away. Williams pointedly suggested 
his telegraphing his managers that he could not appear. Minor humbly ac- 
knowledged the propriety of the action, but held off in a shrinking distaste 
for the finality of the step. 

"If only I could get you out a special train," said Williams, going over 
the well-worn field of possibilities. " But in these times when the road's 
in the hands of receivers, it isn't such an easy matter to get an extra train 
just to take a man to his own concert." 

The dust began to blow in unbearably strong gusts through the screen 
door. Minor got up to close the inside door, and he lingered a moment on 
the threshold, his eyes resting with a sudden look of despondency on the 
glaring ugly world without. His glance fell on the freight trains and hand 

"I have it," he cried excitedly. "I'll take a hand car. You can get 
me some of those Japs that are working on your line farther down, and I'll 
make Rock Springs to-night. 

Williams jumped to his feet. "Minor," he said, "that's an inspira- 
tion. Those lighter hand cars will hold just four people. You can start 
right out and rest often enough if you work by twos to keep your strength 
until you get there." 

In another ten minutes Williams stood bareheaded on the platform wav- 
ing his straw hat to a hand car gliding smoothly and swiftly down the track. 
The sun beat down in long merciless rays, and kindled the lines of steel to 
streaks of livid flame over which the black mass of the hand car shot. Two 
Japanese laborers bent and raised their short, close-knit figures, and the two 
iron hands swung up and down between them like a teetering board. A 
third Japanese sat on the edge of the car holding a cornet case in his hand. 
In front stood Minor, his fresh, boyish face full of a new light and hope. He 
shouted and waved a battered hat, and the car sped down the track and was 

Agatha Jean Sonna, '99. 



It may have been a very commonplace little room, but to my childish 
mind it seemed as beautiful as fairyland, and it is filled with sweet memories 
for me now. The furniture had been of some light colored wood originally, 
I suppose, but Aunt Jane had painted it pale blue with bunches of snow- 
drops on all the panels. Against the white and gold-striped wall paper 
hung mottoes and little pictures of windmills or waterfalls, also the work 
of my artistic Aunt Jane. How sweet it was to waken in that room in the 
early June mornings. Just outside the little white curtained window the 
birds sang in the apple tree, and the fresh morning breezes brought the faint 
fragrance of the apple blossoms into the room. I can remember just where, 
in early summer, the sunlight touched the waterfall, and how, as the weeks 
passed, it moved toward the left, so that when the apples had ripened, it 
lighted Aunt Margaret's sampler instead. 

I remember one rare spring morning, when I started up in childish 
terror at some wild dream I had dreamed, and I found my mother standing 
beside me, looking down at me in sweet compassion. 

"Dear little girl," she said, and as she stooped to kiss me she laid a 
handful of blossoms on the pillow beside my face. I held tight to her hand, 
and as she sat there on my bed beside me, she told me a wonderful thing. 

My little playmate Elizabeth had been ill, and I had not been allowed 
to see her and to play with her for many days. Now in sweet, low tones 
my mother was telling me that little Elizabeth had gone away, and that I 
should not see her again for a long time. She had slipped away in the night 
while I had slept, my mother said, but she had left a good-by kiss for me. 

She had gone far, very far away, beyond the shining of the furthest, 
faintest star, into a city where all was peace and joy, where the beautiful 
white-winged angels would lead her gently by the hand. It seemed like 
some lovely fairy story, and I looked at my mother with wondering incred- 
ulous eyes. 

' ' And will Elizabeth never want to see her Mamma ? And will she 
have any little friends to play with, away off there in the beautiful city?" 
I asked. 


"Ah, little one," said my mother, "she will feel the kisses of God upon 
her lips, and she can never be lonely again." 

After my mother left me, I lay for a long while thinking of little Eliza- 
beth, and I thought that she must be very happy as she walked with the 
bright shining angels, through the streets of the beautiful city. As I lay 
there in my little white room, so full of warmth and sunshine, this land to 
which Elizabeth had gone became very real to me ; and always when I think 
of it to-day, I seem to see again the dear little room, and to hear as a part of 
the heavenly music, the sweet tones of my mother's voice. 

Mary Geraldine Gordon, 1900. 


If one has never sat in a court of justice, and watched that stream of 
wretched humanity file into the dock and out again ; if one has never seen that 
line of miserable faces, each a record of sin, sometimes " more sinned against 
than sinning," one reads with little interest the columns in the daily paper 
under the words, " About the Courts." Boys of twenty arrested and sent to 
prison, girls crowding into a few short years more of experience and misery 
than many women who lead long lives of virtuous monotony will ever know — 
it means no more than the latest novel, with its scene laid in the slums ; it is 
the fate of the poor. 

This is a story of a merciful judge and a nineteenth century Magdalene. 
It is a true story of that darker side of life about which we know so little ; 
dark with misery and shame, and yet as human as our own. 

About nine o'clock, one Saturday evening, a policeman was going the 
rounds of his beat in the slums of a great city. He walked slowly, glancing 
sharply into every dark alley-way, or dimly lighted cellar, as he passed. 
The street was quiet, save when a woman's shrill laugh or a child's cry came 
from the tenement houses crowded on either side. A heavy cart rattled over 
the cobblestones, and as the rumble of its wheels died away, a sound of 
shouting was heard from a side street just ahead. The officer broke into a 
run, and reached the corner in time to seize by the arm a girl pursued by 
two men. She was very young, and her thin face was white with fear. 
She shrank back, as the men came panting up, while the foremost of them, 


Avith a torrent of imprecations, began to explain. He was a large, stout 
man, dressed in a butcher's frock, and still held a knife in his hand. Anger 
and the exertion of running had made his usually red face purple, and he 
shook a clenched fist at the girl cowering before him. 

' ' She's a thief ! " he exclaimed. ' ' She came begging into my shop 
down yonder," pointing over his shoulder with his thumb, " and when I told 
her to be off, she grabbed a dollar which this man had just laid down, and 
ran." The second man was a pleasant featured laborer, who looked pityingly 
at the girl, and made no attempt to accuse her further. By this time a 
small crowd of men had collected, who pushed and jostled each other in 
their efforts to catch sight of the prisoner's scared, white face. She had a 
tiny baby in her arms, and one of the bystanders shouted something which 
caused the officer to look round threateningly, while the girl broke into sobs. 
At this the laborer spoke : " I guess she's sorry," he said, " and she won't do 
it again. Perhaps she's hungry. Are you hungry, my girl?" he added. 
Before she could reply the hard-faced butcher broke in roughly. " Sorry ! " 
he sneered ; " it's too late for that ! She's stole, and she's got to suffer for it. 
Run her in, officer, and I'll be there Monday morning to testify against her. 
Prison's the place for the likes of her." 

A few minutes later the street was quiet. The policeman after taking 
down facts and addresses, led away the girl, the butcher returned to his 
shop, the laborer to his home, and the crowd, to which such things were no 
novelty, wandered off in search of fresh amusement. 

Promptly at nine o'clock the next Monday morning the judge of the 
criminal court entered the court-room, and took his place upon the bench. 
The sing-song voice of the clerk drawled out the usual " Oyez, oyez." Men 
in threadbare suits, and women with hard, curious faces, sauntered in, and 
settled themselves for a morning of entertainment, and the work of the court 

For an hour the usual dull routine went on. The customary number of 
cases for drunkenness and other minor crimes were called, and the prisoners 
released, or sentenced, more or less severely as the case might be. Then, 
suddenly, a change passed over the room. The loafers on the benches sat 
up, looking eagerly at the figure in the dock, the weary voice of the clerk 
took on fresh vigor, and even the judge leaned forward and looked keenly 


at the prisoner. Such a thin slip of a girl she was, and such a tiny baby 
wailing in her arms. " Fifteen years old," she said in answer to the clerk's 
question. " Guilty or not guilty ? " " Guilty." Yes, she did take the money. 
She was hungry, the baby starving. A thrill of pity ran over the court- 
room, but the red-faced butcher, in his best black coat, scowled grimly from 
the front seat. He had hoped she would plead not guilty, that he might 
mount the witness stand, and prove that she lied. He mopped his big, 
coarse face with his handkerchief, and threw one leg across the other impa- 
tiently. A case in court meant much excitement for him, and he had spent 
the previous day telling the story, not without exaggeration, and urging his 
neighbors to be present at the trial. And now, if he should have no chance 
to testify ! 

The judge did not speak. He seemed to be intently studying a paper 
cutter on the desk before him. At last he looked up, and beckoned to an 
officer. " I should like to speak to the prisoner," he said. He watched her 
closely as she came through the gate of the dock, up the steps to where he 
was sitting, and as he talked to her, his keen eyes observed every line of the 
pinched face and figure, every tear in the ragged gown. The baby ceased 
to cry, and reached out a diminutive hand toward his watch-chain. The 
mother drew back hastily, but the judge only smiled. 

As they led the girl away he leaned over and spoke to the clerk. A 
moment later the verdict was announced. "The prisoner is released on 
probation." It is the modern way of saying, " Go, and sin no more." The 
butcher rose angrily and stalked from the room. The kind-faced probation 
officer took the girl's hand, and led her away to what she had never known 
before, — encouragement and a chance to begin again. The next case was 
called, and the old formula began once more, but the judge did not seem to 
be listening. He was again looking at the paper cutter, and the strong lines 
of his face had settled back into their usual reserve. 

Fifteen years old, and starving ! The judge was thinking of his home 
in the suburbs, and of the little daughter who had kissed him good-by that 
It was her fifteenth birthday. 

Amelia M. Ely, '98. 



Does the College want a magazine? Before we as members of the 
Board were vitally interested in the answer to the above question, when we 
were stirred by the pleas and thanks of other Boards for contributions, the 
matter troubled us. Now that we ourselves must plead and thank it moves 
us especially. When we think on future Boards continuing the process, 
hoping that by some manner or means thanking alone might go on and the 
pleading stop, we ask, " Does the College want a magazine? " Can not this 
question be answered seriously and honestly. We do not mean by the 
answer, " Yes ; because other colleges have magazines." We do not mean by 
the answer, "Yes; because there is one here and it must be supported; it 
must not stop." Each year the next senior class asks a few of its members 
to conduct eight publications of the Magazine, on the Constitution of which 
the College has voted, although it is to be doubted whether twenty students 
in the present body know the main features of that document. 

But does the class, does the College, want the Magazine ? By the con- 
tributions which do not fill its post-office box, by the eagerness with which 
requests for contributions are not met, we venture registering "no" in 
answer to this, our question number one. 

Secondly, is the Magazine read, and if so, for what? It has been reported 
that some students subscribe because they feel they have to. Such in all 
probability do not read it at all. One person says she reads it from cover 
to cover ; another for the local departments only. Are there enough of those 
who read it from cover to cover to warrant the continuance of a half of the 
publication for which contributions must be implored, wheedled, and almost 
extorted from their authors ? Or would a majority of the College prefer a 
half sheet containing only Editorials, Free Press, and College Notes? 

Finally, if a magazine is wanted, if it is read, who are willing to con- 
tribute to it? Will a majority of the student body follow the example of a 
blessed few and give freely their best work to stand indicative of the College 
literary status? Or does the majority prefer that no literary status be indi- 
cated ? Does fifty-one per cent of the College want to contribute ? If not — 


if no college pride nor class pride instigates magazine support — if all con- 
tributions must he gone after — if none come spontaneously — can the 
Magazine stand as a truly representative publication ? The suggested feel- 
ing that the Magazine is a sort of secondhand place where worn out articles 
may be disposed of, need not, to our minds, enter a consideration of the 
matter at all. The whole College knows that the whole College is busy — 
that rarely, if ever, do time and inspiration coincide for writing special 
magazine work. If what is already on hand were given, results, we 
think, could be trusted to look out for themselves. Some affirm that they 
thoroughly enjoy what the Magazine attempts to be. How many such are 
there? How many of that number are willing to contribute without special, 
prolonged, and even violent solicitation? If there be not a majority of such 
in the student body, we hold that the issuing of the Magazine, as a College 
publication, is virtually unwarranted. A Magazine, to our mind, without 
spontaneity in contribution, without welcome for its existence, without good- 
will and effort toward its continuance, would better be abolished altogether. 
A mass meeting is easily possible for such an abolishment, for the substi- 
tution of something which will be wanted — which can induce voluntary 
contribution. Is such a meeting wanted — is such an abolishment wanted — 
is such a substitution wanted? 

For the nonce we are agitators, and plan to agitate continually. We 
have opinions — the College, it appears, has opinions. May it help itself and 
us to reach convictions. Finis. 



Sure remedy for "that tired feeling" — take long, easy steps as you 
walk. This may be to every one else an old, old story, but to me it came 
last year as a most delightful discovery. When you are going to the Art 
Building or Stone Hall, let your steps be as long as they please ; don't 
exert yourself to cut them exactly to the decreed lady's length. Forthwith 
you will find the world around you both beautiful and happy, though no 


part of it has passed, even with little blue notes, on a single hour's work. 
Relax, and rest, if not power, will come from your repose. 

Apropos of beauty and walking, and " that tired feeling," might it not 
be suggested that a few additional walks be taken later in the spring with 
a special view to sending some small part of our Wellesley beauty to the 
tired of the city. 

F. H. R., '99. 

Who will pick flowers for our poor little friends in Boston ? They have 
nothing but the very much landscaped Public Gardens, where " keep off the 
grass " confronts them at every step. That reminds me of a story about a 
poor little city boy who, when he w r as asked what were the signs of spring, 
replied that ' ' he guessed it was them boards with ' keep off the grass ' on 
'em." We lucky children of Alma Mater have other signs of spring. 
There are buttercups, daisies, violets, and, above all, the homely dandelion 
everywhere. Do you remember — and it is pretty long ago — with what 
joys in spring you discovered the first dandelion? How you covered your 
dirty little fingers with the white sticky juice, and how you made a trumpet, 
of its long green stem, and oh ! the loveliest curls? It is so easy to gather 
wild flowers for our less fortunate brothers and sisters, many of whom have 
never been blessed with the sight of a field covered with flowers. Remem- 
ber these little ones and take your flowers any Tuesday to Room 121 B. C. 
H., before 3 p. M. They will be taken from there right to the College Set- 
tlement and the children. 

College Settlement, 

I avant to second the motion of H., 'b7. It seems to me that as reasoning 
women we have the right to know these facts that we wish to know regard- 
ing our standing. I am sure that each of us is conscious of some particular 
talent or bent of mind. It may be History, or Mathematics, or Latin, or 
Zoology, but whatever it is, it is to be our life work — we hope to study 
into it more deeply some day — we would like to do original work in it now ; 
we would like to follow up some of the new and interesting paths that are 
suggested in the daily lessons, but for which there is no time in the regular 
hours. For the purpose of following these lines and getting a deeper hold, 


a more original hold, of our subject, we would be willing' to steal a little 
time from something else if we dared. As H., '97, says, we often under- 
estimate our work, and are unconscious that no disastrous results would 
follow the relaxing of work upon a less congenial subject. 

It may be urged that work on a subject that is uncongenial, and there- 
fore difficult, is excellent mental discipline. Is not the lower school the 
place for most of this mental discipline? Indeed, is not work upon a con- 
genial subject quite as beneficial to the mind? In this age of extreme special- 
ization we cannot follow more than one line to any great heights and depths, 
and I think we shall feel ourselves much more richly repaid for toil upon our 
life work than for work on some branch which is to be dropped when the 
course card is in our hand. 

Each girl must decide upon the standard she will set herself in each 
subject. It is better to do skillful, original work in one subject, even 
though it be at the expense of something else, than to do only mediocre 
work in all. To plan work intelligently we must needs know our records. 



The "credit system" seems to have aroused a large amount of dormant 
curiosity in college. So many girls now are saying, "I want to know all my 
marks." "If we know part, we should know all." This, I grant you, is 
plausible. But I hold that we should not know even a part. When I came 
to college it was carefully explained to me why we didn't know our marks. 
These were the reasons : First, when a woman comes to college she is 
supposed to come for the love of knowledge, of study. Second, she is no 
longer a child in high school who needs the stimulus of a prize or the com- 
petition of her fellow students. Now she cau cast aside all working to get 
ahead of her neighbor, and study because she wishes to study. Third, she 
knows very well the kind of work she is doing, and knows, too, if it is 
satisfactory to herself, the one person to be satisfied. She is a student, and 
a woman. These facts, or ought-to-be facts, appealed to me strongly, and it 
was with the greatest disgust that I heard of the credit system. If we do 
work for marks, we should not. If we are not students, here is the place to 
cultivate the student nature. But you say, " We simply want to know as 


they do at men's colleges." That is all very well, but is there not an 
immense amount of competition, of the working for marks, there? I think 
if you listen quietly to college men's stories you will see what an important 
and undesirable factor this struggling to stand before a neighbor is. When a 
woman leaves college, where she has worked for four years, with marks for a 
stimulus, do you think she will take up her life work and throw herself into 
it simply for the love of the work? I think not. She will still look for her 
marks, and work to win the prize. Her life will grow narrow and selfish. 
If there is one thing which, above all others, needs to be crushed out of our 
national life, it is the way men work to get ahead of a neighbor. He works 
for a thing not at all because he believes what he says or does, but because it 
will advance him. The sooner this spirit is crushed out of existence the 
better it is for the nation. Then let us nip in bud a desire which tends to 
heighten this propensity. '98. 


The magazines for April are, in general, singularly lacking both in good 
fiction and in poetry. The spring atmosphere has inspired scarcely a single 
poem, and too many of the stories are quite devoid of freshness. 

We congratulate the new editors of the Amherst Lit. on the bright and 
interesting number for this month. The editorials are sensible and earnest in 
tone. " The Sketch Book" has a bright and picturesque vein. ' ' The Passing 
of a Coward" is a story with strong dramatic interest and a well-sustained 

The Bachelor of Arts has an interesting and lively article on Christine 
de Pisan, an authoress of the fifteenth century; also a thrilling story of 
adventure in Turkey, "The End of a Brigand." "Instead of Clubs" is 
especially noteworthy for its point of view in regard to college societies and 
fraternities. So much has been said against societies that it is well to con- 
sider so enthusiastic a defense. 

In the Yale Lit. for this month there seems to be a striving and strain- 
ing after originality in fiction which only succeeds in attaining ambiguity. 
Doubtless the authors of "A Model Girl" and " The Consequences of Teddy ,T 
knew what they meant. They have, however, left so much to suggestion 


that the puzzled reader fails to discover what they meant to suggest, or, 
indeed, if they meant to suggest anything. The best thing in the Lit. is a 
pathetic little sketch, "A Natural Inference." The leading article is worth 
special notice. It deals with the lamentable lack of interest in scholarship 
exhibited in the modern university, and appeals to the college man to direct 
some part of his enthusiasm for the athlete into appreciative recognition of 
the scholar. 

The Inlander has some good fiction this month. We note a strong story 
of mining life, "Bill and Jerry," and "Tincombe's Refreshment," a story of 
college laboratories. The latter presents an ordinary situation, and makes it 
interesting through its well-studied background and s'ood characterization. 

The Boiodoin Orient is given up to the commemoration of Longfellow's 
ninetieth birthday. 

The Nassau Lit. contains a story called "Dr. Aydelotte"; its style is 
not pleasing, but the principal character is strongly drawn. " The Unex- 
pected Travelers " is an attempt at farce, which has not substance enough nor 
truth enough to make us even smile. In "A Knight of the Nineteenth 
Century" there is a combination of pathos and humor which appeals to the 

The lighter material in the Brown Magazine strikes us as being rather 
unworthy college work ; inclined, in fact, toward the sentimental and friv- 
olous. The leading article, on "The Accidental Mind," is bright in tone, 
concrete in illustration, and especially well written. 

In the Vassar Miscellany we note a bright, original story, "A Heroine 
of the Wayside" ; and in a more serious vein, "In the Interests of Education." 

We clip the following : — 


There's a pine far up on a beetling crag, 
Where the mist-forms drift of a lowering day, 

Like a giant standing with arms spread wide 

Toward the east and west, on either side, 
A guide to the dreary way. 

Gnarled its branches by many a storm, 

Twisted and torn in the driving sleet, 
Shaken its form by each rumbling crash, 
Riven its head by the lightning's flash 

From the breast of the storm clouds fleet. 


" Time came from the east and has journeyed west, 
Harvesting all with his sickles free. 
He has changed the cast of nature's face 
And hurled the rocks from their solid base, 
But he has not taken me. 

So in years to come, when the wind blows wild 
Through the pale gray light of a wintry dawn, 

And the old trees' fingers have loosed their hold 

On the rocks torn out from the frozen mould, 
There's the oldest landmark gone." 

— Yale Lit. 


A race of mighty passion, sometime turned 

From blood and battle-play unto the light 

Of God's full grace, enraptured by the sight 
Of that new revelation's glory, burned 
To reach unto its source. And upward yearned 

The spirit wakened from its rayless night 

And sought to utter the transporting might 
Of truthward aspiration it had learned. 

Behold that utterance in this living stone! 
Buoyant and free these eager arches spring 
Heavenward on and on ; each tower and spire 
Leaps out to the eternal ; ages flown 
Long since to knowledge, breathe unperishing 
In this tall minster, their God-born desire. 

— Nassau Lit. 


Cap and Goivn, Second Series of College Verse. Selected by Fred- 
eric Lawrence Knowles. L. C. Page & Co., Boston. 1897. 

Among collections of its kind this little volume may well rank near 
the first. Fully one half the book is given over to "Love and Senti- 
ment," and is abounding in pleasing little conceits, as well as in some lines 
of true feeling. The main theme of the collection, however, is " the comic," 
for "light, graceful, humorous, sparkling — this should college verse be," 
says the collaborator. As the result of such a purpose in gathering under- 
oraduate lines, the reader has a charmina: little book, calling forth in the 
idle hour irresistible appreciation and smiles. 


Introduction to American Literature, by F. V. N. Painter, A.M., 
D.D., Professor of Modern Languages in Roanoke College. Leach, She- 
well & Sanborn, Boston. 

The book does not claim to be a comprehensive one in the least. 
There is a general survey of each period in our national literature, present- 
ing the conditions under which the various authors wrote. The sketches 
of the representative writers give with considerable fullness the leading- 
biographical facts, together with a critical estimate of their works. The 
selections for special study, which are chosen to illustrate the distinguishing- 
characteristics of each author, are supplied with explanatory notes. The 
attempt is made to give the student a clear and satisfactory knowledge of 
our best authors, and is an attempt calculated to meet with success. 

Charlotte Bronte, Little Journeys to the Homes of Famous "Women 
Series, by Elbert Hubbard. New York and London : Gr. P. Putnam's Sons. 
Price, 10 cents. 

If one pays particular attention to the second title of the little pamph- 
let, instead of the first, he will not think the four sketches it contains mis- 
named. The matter deals more with what was about the author of " Jane 
Eyre " than it does with the author herself. In few words is told the sim- 
ple, pathetic story of the woman who suffered and died, as wife of a tyrant 
Irishman, calling himself by a French name, as mother of one of the world's 
first women writers. There then follow two little essays, picturing the vil- 
lage and the home of this woman writer, and finally, a word of the woman 
herself. The author of the sketches dwells on the joy she must have felt 
in the natural, beautiful world about her, not on her sorrows. " Why," he 
writes, " weep over her troubles, when these were the weapons with which 
she won? Why sit in sackcloth on account of her early death, when it is 
appointed of all men once to die, and with her the grave was swallowed up 
in victory?" It is, on the whole, an interesting little book, and gives the 
reader a bright, chatty account of the surroundings of one who has charmed 
many by her pen. 

Recent numbers of the Zeitschuft der Psychologie und Physiologie der 
Sinnesorgane contain notices of two Wellesley College psychological stud- 
ies : the "Study of the Dream-Consciousness," by Miss Weed, Miss Hallam, 
and Miss Phinney, and Miss Learoyd's account of the " Continued Story." 


The latter review concludes with the words: " Surely it is an attractive 
realm of the psychic life which the delicate' feeling of the author reveals 
and attempts to treat scientifically, spite of the eiforts of the tender 
pictures of fancy to escape from the stern grasp of scientific investi- 

The same reviewer comments rather severely upon the theoretical part 
of Miss Calkins's monograph on "Association." He is especially affected, 
it appears, by the fact that she quotes from only four German psychologists. 
The experimental part of the work, on the other hand, whose results he 
quotes in some detail, he pronounces " valuable" and " sehr beachtenswert." 


Introduction to American Literature, by F. V. N. Painter, A.M., 
D.D., Professor of Modern Languages in Roanoke College. Leach, 
Shewell & Sanborn, Boston, New York, Chicago. 

Charlotte Bronte, Little Journeys to the Homes of Famous AVornen 
Series, by Elbert Hubbard. Price, 10 cents. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New 
York and London ; New Rochelle, N. Y. 

Carlyle's Essay on Burns, edited, with introduction and notes, by 
Andrew J. George, M.A., Department of English, High School, Newton, 
Mass. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston, U. S. A. 

La Pierre cle Touche: A comedy, by Emile Angier, in collaboration 
with Jules Sandeau, edited, with notes and introduction, by George McLean 
Harper, Ph.D., Professor of Romance Languages in Princeton University. 
Ginn & Co., Boston, U. S. A., and London. 

Dona Perfecta, JSfovela Espanola contemporanea, por Benito Perez 
Galdoz, with an introduction and notes by A. R. Marsh, Assistant Professor 
of Comparative Literature in Harvard University. Ginn & Co., Boston, 
U. S. A., and London. 

Cap and Gown, Second Series, selected by Frederic Lawrence 
Knowles. L. C. Page & Co., Boston. 



Apr. 6. — The wheel begins to turn again. 

Apr. 11. — Rev. William R. Richards, of Plainfield, N. J., preached in 
the chapel at the usual hour. At half past seven in the evening, Dr. Pauline 
Root, of Madura, India, gave an interesting account of her experiences as a 
medical missionary. 

Apr. 12. — At 7.30 in the evening, Mr. George Cable gave a reading in 
the chapel from his story, " Pa'son Jones," preceded by a colored mammy's 
bed-time story and a fantastic Creole folk song, both very skillfully rendered. 

Mr. and Mrs. Cable dined, before the reading, with President Irvine 
at Norumbega. 

Apr. 17. — A meeting of the Barn Swallows in the gymnasium. The 
entertainment of the evening consisted of the rendering of the farce, "A 
Chafing Dish Party," by John Ken d rick Bangs. The cast was as follows : — 

Mr. Robert Yardsley (an amateur cook), Grace Edgett, '97. 

Mr. Jack Barlow (an expert guyer), Isabella J. Kenny, '99. 

Mr. Thaddeus Perkins (a householder), Edna V. Patterson, '98. 

Mrs. Perkins (his wife) . . . Ethel Bowman, 1900. 

Mr. Edward Bradley (another guyer), Gertrude Burnham, '97. 

Mrs. Bradley (a peacemaker) . . . "Louise Beach, '99. 

Jennie (the housemaid) ... A. Mary Keepers, 1900. 

The farce was preceded by a short "business meeting," conducted by 
the president, Miss Haskell, and two delightful whistling solos by Florence 
Brentano, 1900. 

Apr. 18. — Preaching by President Merrill E. Gates, of Amherst, at 
eleven o'clock in the morning. At half past seven in the evening, Easter 
Vespers, given under the direction of Professor Hill, by the Glee Club and 
Beethoven Society, assisted by Mrs. Stovall, organist, and Mr. Wiilf Fries, 

Apr. 19. — Holiday ( ?). At half past seven in the evening, concert of 
chamber music, — Beethoven's Septet, Op. 20, and Schubert's Octett, Op. 
166, rendered by Mr. Charles Allen, violinist, Mr. Wulf Fries, 'cellist, and 
several members of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. 


Apr. 25. — Dean George Hodges, of Cambridge. 

Apr. 26. — Concert. 

A regular meeting of the Society Tau Zeta Epsilon was held in Tau 
Zeta Epsilon Hall, on Saturday, April 17, 1897. Miss Ethel Cobb, '99, 
was initiated. The following programme was then presented : — 

I. Stained Glass Windows, Their History and 

Formation . . . . . Alice V. Stevens. 

II. Music . ...... Mary Jauch. 

III. Windows in England, as typified by Burne 

Jones ....... Gertrude Bailey. 

IV. Music ....... Lucile Reynolds. 

V. A Talk on Noted Windows in America . Elsie Stern. 

VI. Music ....... Lucile Reynolds. 

A meeting of the Phi Sigma society was held May 1. The subject was 
Fiona Macloud, and the following programme was given : — 

Celtic Superstition as seen in Green Fire . . Florence Foley. 

Reading from Merime Cloriosd. 

Myths of Love and Death in the " Sin Eater and 

other Tales " ...... Mary Hamblet. 

Celtic Songs. 

Celtic Lyrics in " The Washer of the Ford " . Amelia M. Ely. 

Reading from " The Last Supper." 


Photocbayons : — 
College Hall. 
College Hall from Lake. 
Art Building. 
Music Hall. 

Houghton Memorial Chapel. 
Stone Hall. 
Norumbega Cottage. 
Freeman Cottage. 
Wood Cottage. 
Simpson Cottage. 
The Lodge. 
Photograph Album. Views of buildings and grounds. 


Publications : — 

The Merchant of Venice. Katharine Lee Bates. 

The English Religious Drama. Katharine Lee Bates. 

A Ballad Book. Katharine Lee Bates. 

As You Like It. Katharine Lee Bates. 

Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. Katharine Lee Bates. 

Introduction to the Writings of John Buskin. Vida D. Scudder. 

The Grotesque in Gothic Art. Vida D. Scudder. 

Macaulay's Essay on Lord Clive. Vida D. Scudder. 

Shelley's Prometheus Unbound. Vida D. Scudder. 

The Life of the Spirit in the Modern English Poets. Vida D. Scudder. 

The Pilgrim and other Poems. Sophie Jewett. 

Wellesley Lyrics. Cordelia C. Nevers. 

The Growth of the English Nation. Katharine Coman and Elizabeth Kendall. 

Historical Documents of the Middle Ages. Ernest F. Henderson. 

A History of Germany in the Middle Ages. Ernest F. Henderson. 

The Early History of the Colonial Post Office. Mary E. Woolley. 

Dissertation for the Doctor's Degree. Helen L. Webster. 

Legends of the Micmacs. Edited by Helen L. Webster. 

Metres of Horace Set to Music. Frances E. Lord. 

The Roman Pronunciation of Latin. Frances E. Lord. 

Deutsche Sprachlehre. Carla Wenckebach. 

Scheffel's Trompeter von Sakkingen. Carla Wenckebach. 

Algebra. Ellen Hayes. 

Land Birds of New England. M. A. Willcox. 

Birds of Wellesley and Vicinity. Albert Pitts Morse. 

Dissertation for the Doctor's Degree. Grace E. Cooley. 

Chemistry: Four Pamphlets. Charlotte F. Roberts. 

Stereo-Chemistry. Charlotte F. Roberts. 

An Investigation of the Blood of Necturus and Cryptobranchus. Edith J. Claypole. 

The Enteron of the Cayuga Lake Lamprey. Agnes M. Claypole. 

A New Method for Securing Paraffin Sections to the Slide or Cover Glass. Agnes M. 

Notes on Comparative Histology of Blood and Muscle. Edith J. Claypole. 
Outlines: — 

English Drama. A Working Basis. Katharine Lee Bates and Lydia B. Godfrey. 

Outline : English Literature. Katharine Lee Bates. 

Outline: American Literature. Katharine Lee Bates. 

Chaucer: Outlines and References. Sophie Jewett. 

Syllabus of Lectures on the History of English Literature. Sophie Jewett. 

Outline: For the Study of the Modern English Poets. Vida D. Scudder. 

Outline : English Literature. Vida D. Scudder. 

Outline: Economic Theory. Katharine Coman. 

Outline: Constitutional History of England. Katharine Coman. 

Outline: French Revolution. Katharine Coman. 

Experiments in Chemistry. Charlotte F. Roberts. 

Directions for Laboratory Work in Physiology. Edith J. Claypole. 


Notebooks and Examination Papers — Physics, Psychology, Zoology: — 
Embryology: Papers. 
Physical Laboratory: Papers. 
Biology: Papers. 

Psychological Laboratory: Book. M. W. Calkins. 
Experimental Psychology: Pamphlet. 
Department of Physics : Examination Papers, Pamphlet. 

Biology: Notebooks. Edith Annette Mooar, Mary Zahn Miller, Frances K. Pullen. 
Physiology: Notebooks. Talulah Maine, Alice F. Smith. 
Histology: A Comparison of the Lungs of the Frog, Pigeon, and Rabbit. Frances K. 

Histology: Laboratory Notes, Drawings, and Lecture. 
Notes and Drawings in Anatomy of the Cat and Embryology of the Chick. 
Biology: Slides, two packages. 
Theses: — 

Comparative Study of iEschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. Bertha E. Smith, '90. 

The French Criticism of Shakespeare. Mary Gertrude Cushing, candidate for the degree 

of M.A., 1895. 
Women and Children in English Agriculture. Mary L. Sawyer. 
The Sympathetic Strike in the United States. Minnie A. Morss, June, '95. 
Observations on the Teleuto-stage of Gymnosporangium Clararireforme D. C. Harriet 

Lathrop Merrow, June 3, 1893. 
The Nature of Creative Criticism Ethically Considered. Bertha Palmer. 
Robert Browning's Philosophy of Art. Henrietta Wells Livermore. 
The Product of Convict Labor should be Devoted Exclusively to Prison Consumption. 

Annie Tomlinson. 
Miscellaneous : — 

Book: Circulars and Blanks relating to Administration. 

Book: Entrance Examination Papers, June, 1896. 

Book: Programmes of Concerts, October, 1895, -March, 1897. 

Wellesley College Calendars (3), 1896-97. 

Report of the President and Treasurer, 1896, two copies. 

College Lists, 1896 and 1897. 

Register of the Wellesley College Alumnfe Association. 

Department of Physical Training. M. Anna Wood. 

Statistical Tables : Gymnasium. M. Anna Wood. 

Matriculation Book. 

Wellesley Souvenir Calendar, 1897. 

Souvenir of Class of '86. 

Presentation Address: Portrait of Miss Howard. 

Address at Library Festival. 

Souvenir of Wellesley College : Faculty Parlor. 

Scheme on the Basis of a Bequest by E. N. Horsford. 

Address Delivered at the Opening of the Farnsworth Art School. 

Catalogue of Works of Art in Wellesley College. 

Catalogue: Stetson Collection. 

Catalogue of Works on North American Languages. 



History of Higher Education in Massachusetts: Article on Wellesley College. 

The New Cycle: Article on Wellesley College. 

New England Magazine : Article on Wellesley College. 

Wellesley Magazine, seven numbers. 

Booklets Descriptive of Wellesley (for distribution). 
Publications : — 

The Witness of Denial. Vida D. Scudder. 

Essay: Association. Macmillan & Co. Mary Whiton Calkins. 

Minor Studies from the Psychological Laboratory. Communicated by Mary Whiton 
Calkins. Three pamphlets, " Keprints." 

A Statistical Study of Pseudo-Chromesthesia and Mental Forms. Mary Whiton Calkins. 

Statistics of Dreams. Mary Whiton Calkins. 
Sign: "Wellesley College." 

By the will of Sarah J. Holbrook $3,000 is given to Wellesley to found 
a scholarship. 

The Classical Society held its monthly programme meeting Saturday 
evening, April 24. Jessie G. Hall was initiated into the Society. The 
following was the programme, the second on Latin comedy : — 

II. Terence. 

a. Symposium. 

Latest News from Classic Lands. 

1. Excavations at Corinth. 

2. The Present Greek War. 

b. Discussion. 

I. The Peculiarities of Terence 
II. Types in Latin Comedy. 

1. The Parasite 

2. The Old Father . 

3. The Cunnino; Slave 

Nellie Fowler. 

Grace Chapin. 
Mary Pierce. 
Edith Ames. 

At a regular meeting of Society Zeta Alpha, held April 10, the follow, 
ing programme was presented : — 
Drama in England. 

I. A Survey of the Drama in England . 
II. Some of the English Dramas not put 
upon the Stage 
III. Reminiscences of a Theatre Goer 
Current Topic : The Floods in the West . 

Bertha Trebein. 

Fiances Hoyt. 

Rachel Hoge. 

Margaret Wheeler. 



An interesting article on Mrs. Florence Morse Kingsley, Sp., '76-79, 
appears in The Puritan for April. Mrs. Kingsley is well known as the 
author of " Titus." 

Among the various changes to go into effect next fall at the College, is 
the division of the Mathematics department. Miss Hayes is to be Professor 
of Applied Mathematics and Miss Ellen L. Burrell, '80, has been appointed 
to the professorship of Pure Mathematics. 

Alice Hanson Luce, '83, will enter the English department of the College 
next year. In the absence of Associate Professor Hart, Miss Luce will have 
charge of the freshman work. 

Bertha Denis, '84, and Helen A. Merrill, '86, will return to the College 
next year as instructors in the department of Pure Mathematics. 

Ellen F. Pendleton, '86, has been appointed to the secretaryship of the 
College. Miss Pendleton enters upon the performance of her duties on 
May 1. 

May Banta, '89, Clare L. Wade, '90, Mary Lurena Webster, '91, visited 
the College on Monday, April 12. 

The engagement of Mary Stinson, '89, to Capt. Wm. H. Bean, U. S. 
A., is announced. 

Martha G. McCaulley, '92, is now teaching in Mississippi. 

Helen Burr, '93, has been obliged by illness to give up her position 
in the Medford (Mass.) High School. Sarah Williams, '92, takes Miss 
Burr's place. 

Emeline S. Bennett, '93, Mary Millard, '94, Virginia Corbin, '94, Marion 
Taylor, '95, are working for the degree of P.B. at the Normal College, 
Albany, N. Y. 

The engagement of Helen Parker Drake, '94, to Charles Spaulding Al- 
drich (Brown, '94, Wesleyan, '95), was announced on March 1. Miss 
Drake expects to spend the summer abroad. 



The following members of '95 have visited the College during the past 
month : May Merrill, Bertha Morrill, Mary Field, Grace Waymouth, Alice 

The engagement of Alice W. Norcross, '95, to Mr. Henry J. Gross, of 
Worcester, Mass., is announced. 

The engagement of Helen L. Wilder, '95, to Charles Rufus Harte, of 
Boston, is announced. 

Bessie Mitchell, '95, is teaching in the Milton (Mass.) High School. 

The Alumna? will be glad to know that their petition to the Trustees 
concerning the change of the chapel site was most cordially received. The 
question has been reconsidered and the original site between the rhododen- 
drons and Longfellow given up. The final choice has fallen upon the knoll 
lying between the boardwalk from Music Hall to Simpson and the open 
space in front of Music Hall, and between the avenue and the direct path 
from College Hall to Stone Hall. This site is about four hundred feet east 
of the site originally chosen. 

The Boston Wellesley College Club held its annual luncheon at "The 
Thorndike" Saturday, March 20, and was favored by having as guests of 
the afternoon, President Irvine, Mrs. Alice Freeman Palmer, and Mrs. 
Pauline A. Durant. The club president, Retta L. Winslow, '88, presided 
as Toastmistress, introducing the following toasts, to which the guests and 
several club members responded : — 

"Wellesley" • Mrs. Durant. 

' ' Wellesley's Welcome to Special Students " 

Mrs. Ellen Sherman Corson. 
Songs ....... Alice S. Clement, '91. 

"Wellesley's Present" 
" Wellesley's Future " 


" College Loyalty" 


Elizabeth Ziegler, '96. 

. President Irvine. 

Alice S. Clement, '91. 

Alice Freeman Palmer. 

The meeting was heartily enjoyed by all, and there was a very large 
attendance, fifty-seven members being present. Dainty souvenirs of the 


feast were provided by the club president, to whose efficiency the club owes 
its continued success and increase of members during the past two years. 
The new board of officers elected at this meeting are : president, Agnes W. 
Damon, '93 ; vice president, Annie H. Capron, '82 ; secretary and treasurer, 
Elizabeth Ziegler, '96. 

The annual meeting of the Eastern New York Wellesley Club for the 
election of officers was held in March, 1897. The following officers were 
elected : president, Miss Ada Alice Jones, '84 ; secretary, Miss Bertha E. 
Hyatt, '96 ; treasurer, Miss Helen P. Drake, '94. It was decided to hold 
the annual reunion on Saturday, April 3. 

On Saturday, April 3, 1897, the Eastern New York Wellesley Club 
held its annual reunion and luncheon at the home of Miss Bertha E. Hyatt, 
358 Madison Avenue, Albany, N. Y. During the afternoon a few notices 
were given, and college news was exchanged. Before leaving, all joined 
heartily in giving the college cheer. The members unanimously agreed that 
the opportunities for meeting were too few, and it was hoped that the club 
might be called together at least once more before next spring. 

The Southern California Wellesley Club was entertained by Miss Ida 
M. Frye in Los Angeles on the afternoon of April 3, it being the Club's 
first anniversary. The rooms were very prettily decorated in the « ' Welles- 
ley blue." A delightful musical and literary programme was rendered, after 
which refreshments were served. Dainty souvenirs were presented to each 
guest. Those present were: Mrs. Coman, Mrs. Thompson, Misses Har- 
wood, Sumner, Morgan, French, Foster, Lebus, Davis, Deyo, Jacobus, 
Winston, Ward, Frye, Graves, and Davenport. 


The annual meeting of the Wellesley Alumna? Chapter of the College 
Settlements Association will be held on Commencement Day, June 22, 
1897, at 9.30, in the Lecture Boom of the Art Building. 

Mabel Gair Curtis, 

Secretary W. A. Chapter. 



Sapp-Stockwell. — In Cleveland, Ohio, January 27, 1897, Miss Netta 
Stockwell, '92, to Mr. Walter S. Sapp. At home 1008 Case Avenue, 

[Note. — Through a mistake in editing, the April number of the Maga- 
zine contained an inaccurate notice of the marriage of Miss Edna Pressy, '94. 
The editor apologizes to Mrs. Flagg and begs to state that the notice was 
correct in the January number.] 


In New Haven, Conn., March 4, 1897, a daughter to Mi's. Alice 
Wetherbee Morehouse, formerly '87. 

In Worcester, Mass., March 24, 1897, a daughter, Alice Lydia, to 
Mrs. Alice C Arnold Burbank, '91. 

In Easton, Pa., March 3, 1897, a son, Manfred, Jr., to Mrs. Katharine 
Eackenthal Lilliefors, '95. 


In Quincy, Mass., Mrs. Theodosia O. Hardwick, mother of Mrs. Carrie 
Hardwick Bigelow, '93. 

In Boston, Mass., Feb. 15, 1897, Mr. Elisha W. Hall, father of 
Henrietta Hall, '81, and of Flora A. Hall, '91. 



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MRS> S9H^/^ 

Photographer to the Class of '97 

.ZVos. 74 and 88 Boylston Street, 




The elegant Sabine Edition of Eugene Field; Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co.'s beautiful editions of the American authors, 
Lowell, Hawthorne, Emerson, Holmes, Whittier and Long, 
fellow, superbly illustrated with 375 steel engravings and 
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ALL the Standard Editions of Dickens, Thackeray, Bulwer, 
Dumas, Waverly, Eliot, Victor Hugo, and other authors, in 
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pedias. The complete set delivered at once, and payments at the 
rate of $1 or $2 per month, will be satisfactory. 

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Address, "X," 

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Royal Worcester Corsets, $1.00, $1.25, 
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French Corsets, $1.50, $2.00, $2.25, and 

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Jackson Waists, $1.25, $1.50. 

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Prescriptions filled. 

Excellent Watch Work at moderate prices. Mr. Hodgson, 
recently head watchmaker for Messrs. BIGELOW, KEN- 
NARD & COMPANY (6 years with them), 4 years with 
Special Prices to Students. 

j Temple Place, Room 4.4, Boston. 

Take Elevator. 

Joseph Perkins, 

Reasonable Rates . . . Special Terms by 
the Quarter ; Lessons given Day or Evening. 

jTAgent for J. F. Luscomb's Latest Banjos^t 

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Importers of_ 

Art photographs 

Designers . . . 
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TF you will try Mrs. Dr. J. E. Bishop's 


you will be relieved of headaches caused 
by loss of sleep, overwork, or nervous- 

Mrs. Dr. J. E. Bishop, 

Hotel Pelham, 74 Boylston Street, Boston. 


Penhallow Tales, by Edith Robi?ison, with cover 

design by C. B. Murphy. Cloth, octavo, $1.25. 

The title of Miss Robinson's book is taken from the opening" 

story, which it will be remembered created no little attention 

sometime ago when it appeared in The Century. 

More Songs from Vagabondia, by Bliss Carman 
and Richard Hovey, with new designs by T. B. 
Meteyard. Paper, boards, $1.00. 
Companion volume to " Songs from Vagabondia," now in 
its third edition. 

No. 69 Cornhill, Boston. 



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Wright & Ditson. 

new England's leading athletic outfitters* 

Every Requisite for . . . 

Athletic Sports and Pastimes 

Golf, tennis, Basket ball, 
skating, etc. 

Gymnasium, Fencing and Outing Uniforms 
of every description. 

Prompt and careful attention given to mail orders. 

Wright & Ditson, 

No. 344 Washington Street, Boston, Mass. 

The Dana Hall School, 


Pupils are prepared for regular or for special courses at 
Wellesley College. 

Price for Board and Tuition, $500 for the school year; 
Tuition for day pupils, $125. 

For further information address the Principals : 

Julia A. Eastman, 
Sarah P. Eastman. 


AND . 



C W. PERRY, Sole Agent, 


IPerrg's Drug Store. 


Fine Stationery and Engraving House 

1121 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. 



Heraldry and Genealogy a Specialty. 

Coats of Arms Painted for Framing. 


Roman's Medical College of the 

New York Infirmary for Women and Children. 

AESSION '96-97 opens October 1, 1896. Four years, Graded Course. 
C^ Instruction by Lectures, Clinics, Recitations and practical work, under 
supervision in Laboratories, and Dispensary of College, and in New York 
Infirmary. Clinics and operations in most of the City Hospitals and Dis- 
pensaries open to Women Students. For Catalogues, etc., address 

321 East Fifteenth Street, 
New York. 




Fine Tortoise Shell Goods. 

Salesroom, 7 TEMPLE PLACE. 

Factory, 363 Washington St., BOSTON. 

Special discount to Wellesley Students. 

Stationer and Picture Dealer. 

Special attention given to Framing 
Pictures at reasonable prices. ££<£ 

It is of easy access by the Electric Cars. 

No. 2 riain Street, Natick, Hass. 


Trimmed and Untrimmed Hats. 
Bicycle and Walking Hats a Specialty. 

Our Dress-lining Department is the 
largest in the city. Jt *j* jX jt j& ^8 
Special prices to Wellesley Students. 




Iflellesley Preparatory, 


For cirtular address the Principals, 


Established 1843. Incorporated 1895. 


Largest Stock and Lowest 
Prices on 


Mathematical Instruments, 

Drawing Materials and Picture Frames 



Importers and Wholesale Dealers, 

'Special Rates to Colleges." 

New Illustrated Catalogue Free. 



It is generally conceded that a stringed instrument 
is almost an absolute necessity. To secure the 
greatest enjoyment from the purchase get the best 
your money will afford. Expert judgment 
pronounces the "Bay State" instruments 
the finest in the world. An excellent instru- 
ment is the 


We have in stock cheaper banjos than this, 
but for a substantial, serviceable instrument 
at a low price, no other instrument manufac- 
tured can compare with it. Send for illus- 
trated catalogue. 

453-463 Washington Street, Boston. 




FULL LINE of Hand Cameras and 
Material^^t^Negatives Developed. 
Prints Made and Mounted^^^^^t 


Wellesley Graduates are always in demand. 
Register now. 


William F. Jarvis, Manager. 

Send for registration blanks and circulars 



A Large Variety in the Latest Styles. 

JFancy Goods, Novelties, Picture Frames, 
Bicycles, etc., etc. 


16 Main Street, Natick, .Mass. 

PRI NTI NG^*^ &J-J-&J-J-& 

First-Class Work. Prompt Service. 

Class and Society Printing- a Specialty. 

We Guarantee Satisfaction. 

"The Bulletin Press," 

1 8 main Street, Natick, Mass. 

JVIQ CjrlOVeSj Hosiery, Underwear and Ribbons, Embroidery 
Silks, Stamped Linens, Denims, Art Muslins, and Cretonnes.«^«^^ 

J. B. Leamy, Natick, Mass. 

lO per cent discount to all 

Professors and Students of 
Wellesley College. 

Artists'. . . 

Drafting Instruments. Art Studies and Books. 

Oil and Water Colors, Crayons, Materials 
For Tapestry, Painting, etc. 

wadswortn, (lowland I Co.. » 88 and 84 Washington St., Boston. 

Branch Store in the Grundmann Studios, Clarendon Street, near St. James Avenue. Principal Factories, Maiden, 

Mass., and South Paris, Maine. 


Lights .^c^Easyo^^^Firm 

Also the most reasonable in price. 




Prescription Opticians, 

New York Medical College and Hospital for Women. 

New York City, 213 West 54th St. 


Thirty-fourth Annual Course of Lectures began October 2, 1896. 

Curriculum includes a Four Years' Graded Course of Study, 
happily interspersing Didactic and Clinical Lectures, to- 
gether with Practical Anatomy, Chemical and Histo- 
logical Laboratory Work, so as to give the broadest 
cultivation with the least possible fatigue to the 
students. Everything promised in the An- 
nouncement rigidly adhered to. 

J. de la M. LOZIER, M.D., Sci.D., Dean, 

135 West 34th St., New York City. 
For information, address 

M. BELLE BROWN, M.D., Sec'y, 

135 West 34th Street, New York City. 


Evangeline Hathaway, '90, is organizing a private party 
for the summer of '97. An experienced conductor will accom- 
pany the party. Address her at 11 Beacon Street, Boston. 

Ibigb Glass 

-dare ano fl>art£ Engraving 

Special Discount to THHellcslcv; Stu&cnts 


Imperil your health by going 
without your luncheon when 
you can find such dainty, pal- 
atable, and nutritious food for 
moderate prices, 3XJ><££>J>£>J- 

Coon Ladies' LuqgH, 



All orders for articles per- 
taining to dinners or desserts 
and for the service of parties 
will be carefully executed*?^ 



5M Korwell & Co. 

Deliver all packages at the 
College and in Wellesley free 
of charge £•<£•£•£•£•£>£>£• 

London Mixture 
Breakfast Tea. 

$1.00 per pound. 


Tremont Bldg., cor. Tremont and Beacon 
Sts., Copley Square, and Central Wharf, 
Boston, and Coolidge's Corner, Brookline 

Mil uljUUU Stand the Light! 
The more light the more good 
points you see. 

Perfect satisfaction in every purchase, 

Fine Confections .. Large variety 

of Fancy Boxes for Presents. 

and that backed up to the letter. Men- 
tion this advertisement. 

UnderWOOd, Leader in Footwear 

3 Clark's Block, Natick. 

v 146 Tremont St. 

Delicious Ice Cream Soda. Mail orders receive 
prompt and careful attention. 

The Young Ladies' Attention is called to something 
very attractive in a 

French Flannel Shirt Waist, 

which has been made to order in the most Fashionable 
colors and very "Chic" style for 


No. 44 Temple Place, Boston. 

The Young Ladies should make a special examination of these Waists, as they are 

proving wonderfully satisfactory. 


335 Washington Street, Boston. 

College Athletic and Gymnasium Outfitters. 


Crew Sweaters and Jerseys, which are also suitable for all athletic purposes, made to order in any 

style in the best manner. 
A Discount of 10 per cent is given Wellesley students on individual orders. Special net rates for crew or team orders. 

We sell 
High Grade 


At price of LOW GRADE elsewhere. 



THIS COUPON ^^^ $25.00 | 




FRA ™„ S,IAW ' B0YLST0N PIANO CO., MO Boylston St. J 

Perfect Comfort 

For women and positive style. That's what we studied 
for. That's what we have. Not a toe crowded. Noth- 
ing to pinch or hurt. 

TheH. H. "TuttleShoe" 

is made on men's lasts. Has that graceful outside 
swing that gives the little toe breathing room. Double, 
soled calf for those who want heavy shoes. Lighter 
grades for others. $4 to $8 is the price. Discount to 
Students and Faculty. 

H. H. TUTTLE & CO., 

Washington St., cor. Winter Street. 

The Fisk Teachers' Agencies. 

4 Ashburton Place, Boston, Mass. 

70 Fifth Avenue, New York City, N. Y. 
1242 Twelfth Street, Washington, D. C. 
355 Wabash Avenue, Chicago, 111. 

25 King Street, West Toronto, Canada. 

420 Century Building, Minneapolis, Minn. 

107 Keith & Perry Building, Kansas City, Mo. 
72S Cooper Building, Denver, Col. 

525 Stimson Block, Los Angeles, Cal. 


Photographs in all colors by the Carbon Process. 

Enlarged or reduced copies of Paintings, Engrav- 
nigs, etc. These photographs are absolutely per- 
manent, and of the greatest artistic merit. 


No. 145-A. Treniont Street, Boston, Mass. 
T. Irvin Chapman, 

Joel Goldthwait & Company, 

Oriental Carpets and Rugs. Axminsters, 'Wilton and 

Brussels Carpets. 

We are now ready to show the finest line we ever opened in 

Foreign and Domestic Carpets. 

All new in style, and adapted to the present furnishing 
Our own special patterns. Our open stock is full at prices lower than ever. 

Joel Goldthwait & Company, 

Near Coruhill. 

163 to 169 Washington Street, Boston, Mass. 

In every department of our store we allow Wellesley Professors and 
Students a discount, generally 10 per cent. 

We deliver all goods free of express charges at Wellesley College and Dana Hall. 

During the year you will notice many attractive goods which your friends at home 
would be glad to see. We shall be glad to send samples at your request. 

Dress Goods, Hosiery, Neckwear, Millinery, 
Underwear and Art Embroideries 

are perhaps some of the departments most interesting to students, but the discount applies 
to every department. 


Tremont Street and Temple Place, - - BOSTON, MASS. 


Ladies' and Children's 

Specialty Garment House. 

Young Ladies' Coats, Suits, 
Wraps, Fur Capes, Rain-proof 
Garments, Silk Petticoats, 
and Tea Gowns. 

The Latest Paris and Berlin Novelties 

Always in Stock at 
Moderate Prices. . . 

531 and 533 Washington Street, Boston 

Next door to Boston Theatre. 

Frank Wood, Printer, Boston.